He prodded her with his foot. “We’re at sea now,” he told her as she woke. “You don’t have to stay in there anymore. There’s fifty fathoms of cold water above us, so don’t even think about trying to escape.”
“At sea?” Wren knew that the open sea was a long way from Anchorage-in-Vineland. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying.
“I’m going to take you to Grimsby,” said Fishcake. “Uncle or one of the older boys will know what to do with you. You can clean yourself up if you want. You can take some of Remora’s old clothes from her locker.”
“Thank you,” whispered Wren.
“I’m not doing it for your sake,” Fishcake said sharply, to show her he wasn’t soft. “It’s the stink, see? I can’t be breathing your reek all the way to Grimsby.”
Wren went aft. For four days she had seen nothing but the inside of the toilet cubicle, and after that, even the narrow passageways of the Autolycus seemed roomy. Remora’s locker was decorated with pictures snipped out of stolen magazines: hairstyles and clothes. There were photographs of Remora and Gargle laughing, their arms around each other. There was a bag of makeup, and a teddy bear, and a book on interpreting your dreams. Wren took some clothes and changed, then went and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the sink, which wasn’t really a mirror but just a sheet of polished metal bolted to the wall. Already she looked older and thinner, swamped by Remora’s shapeless dark clothes. Wren the Lost Girl. When she had stuffed her own filthy clothes into one of the bags the limpet crews used for loot and tied it shut, there was nothing of Vineland left about her but her boots.
She sat in the hold, listening to Fishcake clattering about on the bridge. Her stomach rumbled, but the Lost Boy had offered her no food, and she was afraid to ask for any. It was a bit embarrassing, being held prisoner by someone so much younger than her, but Fishcake’s feelings were balanced on such a knife-edge that Wren was still afraid he might kill her if she annoyed him. Better stay quiet. She drank foul-tasting water from the sink faucet and thought about escape. Daring plans formed in her mind, only to burst like bubbles after a few seconds. Even if she somehow overpowered her little captor, she would never be able to steer the limpet back to Vineland. She was stuck here, and it was all her own fault. She had been incredibly, dangerously stupid, she could see that now, and it made her ashamed because she had always thought herself clever. Hadn’t Miss Freya always said that Wren had more brains than any of the other young people in Vineland?
“Well, Wren,” she said, hugging herself for comfort, “if you’re going to stay alive and find your way back to Mum and Dad, you’ll have to start using them.”
The Autolycus was a hundred miles from shore when the signal came in. Fishcake thought at first that it must be a message from another limpet, although he didn’t know that any others were operating on this side of the ocean. Then he noticed something strange: The signal was being broadcast simultaneously on the limpet-to-limpet frequency and on the wavelength that the limpets used to receive pictures from their wireless crab-cams.
He flicked some switches, and the bank of circular screens above his station slowly flooded with light.
Huddled on the floor of the hold, Wren heard voices. She crept to the door of the control cabin and peeked through. Fishcake was staring up at the screens. All six showed the same strange image: a city, seen from above, cruising on a calm sea. It was hard to tell on this grainy, ghosting picture what size of city it was, but it looked pleasant, with many ornate white cupolas and domes, and lots of long pennants streaming in the wind.
“What’s that?” asked Wren.
Fishcake glanced round, but if he was surprised to find her standing there, he didn’t show it. He turned his face to the screens again. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. It keeps repeating. Watch.”
The picture changed. A kindly-looking man and woman sat side by side upon a sofa. They seemed to be looking straight at Wren and Fishcake, and although they were strangers, and dressed in the robes and turbans of rich townspeople, something in their sad and gentle smiles made Wren think of her own mum and dad and how they must be missing her.
“Greetings, children of the deep!” said the man. “We are speaking to you on behalf of WOPCART, the World Organization for Parents of Children Abducted from Raft Towns. For half a century, boys—and lately girls too—have been vanishing from cities that cross the Atlantic and the Ice Wastes. Only in recent years, thanks to the explorer Nimrod Pennyroyal, have we become aware of the parasite-pirates who secretly burgle and infest such cities, and who steal children away to train as thieves and burglars like themselves.”
“Pennyroyal again!” said Wren crossly.
“Shush!” said Fishcake. “Listen!”
The woman was speaking now, still smiling, but weeping too, as she leaned toward the viewers. “Now the good people of the raft resort of Brighton have brought us north into your home waters. If you tune your radio equipment to 680 kilocycles, you will pick up the signal of Brighton’s homing beacon. We know that you probably have no memories of the mummies and daddies from whom you were stolen when you were so very little, and who have been missing you so very much. But if you come to us, come in your submarines to meet us here in Brighton, we are sure that many of you will recognize your own families, and they you. We do not want to harm you, or take you from your new friends or your exciting new life beneath the waves. We only want a chance to see our dear lost boys again…”
Here the woman’s voice grew high and wobbly; she hid her face in her handkerchief while her husband patted her arm and took over.
“WOPCART has many members,” he explained, and the picture changed again to show a crowd of people gathered on one of the city’s observation platforms. “Every one of us has lost a child, and longs to see him again and learn what has happened to him. Or, indeed, her. Oh, children of the deep, if you can hear this message, we beg you, come to us!”
The image lingered for a moment while sad music swelled and the members of WOPCART all smiled and waved at the camera and the sea breeze plucked at their coats and robes and hats. Then it was replaced by a printed sign that read:
The music faded, there was a moment of blackness, and the transmission began again. “Greetings, children of the deep!…”
“See?” asked Fishcake, turning to Wren. He had forgotten that she was his hostage, so eager was he to share the astonishing message with somebody. His eyes were shining— his whole face was radiant—and Wren realized for the first time how young he really was: just a small boy, far from home and longing for love and comfort.
“What do you think I should do?” he asked. “I checked for Brighton’s homing beacon. They’re close. About fifty, sixty miles southwest of us. I never heard of a city coming that near to the Dead Continent…”
Wren could feel the sense of yearning building in the cramped cabin as Fishcake imagined that city full of mums and dads floating fifty miles away. What if she could persuade him to rendezvous with Brighton? She was sure that she would be far better off there than down in Grimsby. So would Fishcake, probably, so she need not feel guilty about it.
She went into the cabin and sat down in the swivel chair beside his. “Maybe they’ve come here because they’re searching for Lost Boys,” she said. “They could have been zigzagging their way north for weeks, transmitting that message over and over. Gargle told me that limpets had gone missing. He thought something bad had happened to them, but what if they just heard that message and went to find their families… ?”