With a grinding clang the limpet lurched awkwardly sideways, throwing Wren off her feet. At first she thought it was because of something Fishcake had done. “You might have warned me,” she complained, rubbing the elbow she’d banged on a bulkhead. Then she saw that the boy looked just as startled as her.
“What’s happening?” she whispered.
“I don’t know, I don’t know]”
No mistaking the next sensation. The Autolycus was rising quickly upward. Water foamed white as it broke the surface, and sunlight burst into the cabin, blindingly bright after so many days in the dark. When Wren could see again, the limpet was hanging high above the waves and being swung sideways over a broad metal deck that jutted out from Brighton’s bow. People were running across the deck—not the smiley, well-dressed mums and dads she’d seen on the screens, but rough-looking, tough-looking men in rubberized overalls. Wren felt a jolt of fear at the sight of them. Then, looking past them, she relaxed, for overlooking the deck was a pleasant promenade, and the people lining the railings there looked much more like Parents of Children Abducted from Raft Towns: beaming, happy, pointing down excitedly at the limpet as it was dumped on the deck.
Fishcake was already halfway up the ladder that led to the hatch on the roof. As he popped it open, the sound of cheering burst into the limpet and a big amplified voice began shouting something, the words confused and echoey.
Wren followed him up the ladder. Out on the hull, Fishcake was crouched against the periscope mounting, looking nervously around, confused by the sunlight and the thundering cheers. The magnetic grapple that had dragged the limpet from the sea had been released and dangled dripping overhead, attached to the jib of a crane. The people on the promenade were shouting and cheering and waving their arms in the air. Wren touched Fishcake’s shoulder to reassure him. The rubber-suited men had formed a loose ring around the limpet and were closing in cautiously. Wren supposed they must be longshoremen or fishermen hired to pull limpets aboard. She smiled at them, but they did not smile back. Straining her ears, she began to make out what the booming voice was saying.
“… and for those of you who have just joined us,” it bellowed through squalls of feedback, “Brighton has captured a fourth pirate submarine! There are the crew, creeping out onto the hull—as desperate-looking a pair of young cutthroats as you could hope to meet! But don’t worry, ladies and gentlemen; the world will soon be rid of these parasites forever!”
“It’s a trap!” said Wren. Fishcake, who hadn’t understood what the announcer was saying, turned a shocked white face toward her. “It’s not real!” she cried, standing up, shouting. “Fishcake! It’s a—”
And two men came up the limpet’s side, unfurling something between them that turned out to be a net. They dropped it over Fishcake, who kicked and struggled and shouted and reached for Wren’s hand. “Does this mean they aren’t our mummies and daddies?” he asked her, his voice going squeaky and ready to cry. “You lied! You lied to me!”
Then strong hands grabbed him from behind and tore him away from Wren, and more hands grabbed her, rough hands in rubber gauntlets that stank of fish and oil. A net went over her, and though she wriggled and lashed out with fists and feet, she could not stop her captor from throwing her over his shoulder, carrying her down the limpet’s flank, and dumping her heavily on the deck. She heard Fishcake’s sobs turn suddenly to a sharp squeal, and a moment later she understood why. A man grabbed her arm and burned the back of her hand with a hot iron stamp, branding her with a sort of logo:
“Mummy! Mummy!” Fishcake was howling as they dragged him away, still not wanting to believe that WOPCART and all the smiley parents had been nothing but bait.
“Leave him alone!” screamed Wren, weeping with the pain of her seared hand. “He’s only ten! How can you be so beastly? He thought you were his parents!”
“That’s the idea, boy.” A big, burly man in a waterproof cape stooped over her, belching out a hot fug of whiskey fumes as he peered into her face. “Hang on,” Wren heard him say. “Look, Miss Weems—this one’s a girl.”
A brittle, beautiful woman in black shoved him aside. She had a brand on her hand just like Wren’s, but hers was old and had faded to a raised scar not much darker than the surrounding skin. “Interesting,” she said, looking at Wren. “We’ve heard rumors of female parasites, but she’s the first we’ve seen.”
“I’m not a Lost Girl!” Wren shouted through the tight wet mesh of the net. “I was a prisoner aboard the Autolycus, Fishcake took me from my home…”
The woman sneered at her. “I don’t care who you are, girl. We are slave dealers You are just merchandise, as far as we’re concerned.”
“But I’m— You can’t make me a slave!”
“Au contraire, child, our contract with Mayor Pennyroyal is perfectly clear: Anyone we dredge up in one of those parasite machines becomes the property of the Shkin Corporation.”
“Mayor Pennyroyal?” cried Wren. “You don’t mean… Not Nimrod Pennyroyal?”
The woman seemed surprised that a Lost Girl should recognize that name. “Yes. Nimrod Pennyroyal has been mayor of Brighton these past twelve years or more.”
“But he can’t be! Who’d want Pennyroyal for mayor? He’s a fraud! A traitor! An airship thief!”
Miss Weems made some notes upon a clipboard. “Take her to the slave pens,” she told one of her men. “Inform Mr. Shkin of the catch. I believe it’s a good sign. We may be drawing close to the pirate nest.”
Chapter 11
Four Against Crimbsy
On the morning of their departure, when the Screw Worm was ready at last and Hester and Tom were waiting for Caul to run a few final tests on the engines, Freya Rasmussen came down to the mooring beach and announced that she was coming too. Nothing that Tom or Hester could say seemed to change her mind.
“It’ll be dangerous.”
“Well, you’re both going.”
“You’re needed here.”
“Oh, Anchorage-in-Vineland runs itself perfectly well without me. Anyway, I told Mrs. Aakiuq that she can be Acting Margravine while I’m away, and you don’t want to disappoint her, do you? She’s made herself a special hat and everything…” Beaming, Freya clambered up the Screw Worm’s boarding ladder and dumped her bulky going-away bag through the hatch.
“Don’t you understand, Snow Queen?” Hester said. “We’re not off to Grimsby to pay a social call. We’re going to get Wren back, and if I have to kill every Lost Boy who stands in my way…”
“You’ll only make things worse,” said Freya tartly. “There’s been too much killing already. That’s why you need me along. I can talk to Uncle and make him see reason.”
Hester let out an exasperated howl and looked to Caul, sure that he would not want Freya along for the ride, but Caul was saying nothing, staring away across the shining water.
So it was settled, and the voyage began like a picnic trip, with Tom and Freya waving from the Screw Worm’s open hatchways as the limpet nosed out into the lake and all of Anchorage-in-Vineland lined the beach to cheer them on their way.
As the city passed out of sight behind the headland and the Screw Worm folded in its legs and prepared to submerge, Freya went down into the cabin, where Caul was hunched over the rusty controls. But Tom stayed out on the hull until the last moment, watching the passing shoreline, the green slopes reflecting in the rippled water. Birds were calling in the reed beds, their songs echoing the car alarms and mobile-phone trills that their distant ancestors must have heard: sound-fossils of a vanished world. They made Tom think of the Ancient settlements he had begun to excavate in the Dead Hills and the relics of forgotten lives he had unearthed there. Would he ever return with Wren to finish his work?