“Why would anyone want to level Springston?” Vic asked. “Why would they want to level Low-Pub? And Palmer said these people found Danvar but didn’t seem interested in scavenging from it, that they were just using it to fine-tune some map, to locate this bomb of theirs—”
“They don’t give a shit about what’s left out here,” Conner said, “because he’s not from here.” He nodded, remembering something else. “Violet said there were more and more of our people appearing in their camp, that we’re becoming a nuisance to them, like rats—”
“Because there’s been more people jumping the gash,” Vic said.
“So how do they turn that dribble off?”
“It’s not by making us want to stay here.” Vic clenched and unclenched her jaw. “It’s by getting rid of us.”
“How many do you think there are? The guy back there, your friend, was he—?”
“No,” Vic said. “He grew up in Low-Pub. I’ve known him forever. I know a lot of the guys running around with this crew, and they didn’t just pop up out of nowhere. They were recruited.”
“But why would any of our people help them do something like this?”
Vic didn’t answer right away. She tightened the jib and got the sarfer back up to full speed. Finally, she turned to Conner. “One crazy fuck could do this,” she said. “One crazy fuck with a pocket of coin who knows how to say the right things. That’s all it would take. He could find enough people to kill for the thrill of it, for some bullshit cause, for bread and water and copper and a chance to blow shit up.” She slapped the tiller. Shook her head. “Fucking Marco,” she said. And she must’ve gotten sand in her eyes, because she had to pull her goggles back up over them.
Conner slumped in his seat. He wondered if all they were thinking was possible. He suspected he and his sister were being crazier than Palmer with all of this speculation and nonsense. It didn’t seem like any of what they were positing could be true. But which was more likely? That the girl who’d crawled half-dead into his campsite was a cannibal from the north? Or that the crazed assholes who had leveled Springston were working for someone who’d brought his thunder clear across No Man’s Land?
“What’re you thinking?” Vic asked. She turned and studied him, could tell he was mulling it all over.
“I think you’re fucking crazy,” Conner said. “And I think you’re probably right.”
54 • Low-Pub
They parked the sarfer on the north side of Low-Pub. Conner and his sister had debated where to start as they approached town. There were no obvious targets in Low-Pub; not like Springston and its great wall. They still didn’t have a course of action, but as they lowered the mainsail, the pop of its canvas in the wind was replaced by the pop, pop of distant gunfire. They both turned toward town. Finding trouble might not be as hard as they’d feared. And there were no columns of black smoke to indicate that they were too late. They sat on the sarfer’s hull and pulled their freshly charged dive suits on. Vic suggested they go without bottles so they could move more easily. “And don’t hesitate to bury these guys,” she told him. “Send them straight down.”
Conner nodded. It was a dangerous heresy for a diver to mutter, using a suit against another. But they were dealing with people who killed others by turning their own suits against them. They were dealing with people who leveled towns. He wouldn’t hesitate. Yesterday, he had saved lives. Today, he steeled himself for the more gruesome task of taking them. He pulled his band down over his head and followed his sister into town. The two of them moved in a crouch. Low-Pub felt dead. Like everyone was gone or locked up in their homes. It was a hand past noon, the wind and sand whistling through town. The gunfire had stopped, which left them moving toward the area they thought they’d heard it emanate from. Vic turned and pointed down toward the sand. Conner nodded and lowered his visor. His sister disappeared, and he powered up his suit, pulled his ker over his mouth, and followed.
They moved beneath the town where it was forbidden to dive. There was a purple roof of open air overhead, dots of buried garbage and scraps here and there, a few iron cages around basements, erected by the paranoid, but they were blind to what was going on above the dunes. This was a safe and quick way to move, but they couldn’t see where they were moving to or if anyone was up there. Conner just trusted his sister and kept close to her boots. He noticed that she kept studying the mass of magentas and deep purples above them as if there was information in that great bruise.
She slowed and began to rise. Conner followed. He saw the bubble and swell of sand they were entering and realized they were coming up inside a mounded dune. Vic pierced the top, just her head, and Conner did the same. They flicked their visors up. Shifting the sand around her, Vic slid forward, away from Conner, just her head moving across the surface of the dune’s ridge like a ball in a game of kick. His sister could move the sand in ways he’d never thought of; he had to learn on the fly how to adjust and mimic her. It was difficult, keeping the same level as he pushed the sand against his back. He took deep gulps of air through his ker, reminded once again that he couldn’t stay down as long as she could.
She lifted a hand out of the sand and pointed down into the middle of a large square that was ringed with makeshift shacks. It was the market at the center of Low-Pub. There were goods and wares hanging in the shacks, smoke rising from food stalls, the smell of meat burning, but no one shopping or tending the stalls. A dozen or so bodies were strewn throughout the market. Bloodstains. People had been shot, everyone else running for cover. Explained why it was so quiet. Conner spotted a small group of men working in the dead center of the market. Someone, somewhere, screamed in agony. Not all of the shot were dead. Not yet.
“Wait here,” Vic said. She flipped her visor down and slid beneath the sand.
“No fucking way,” Conner told the empty air. He flipped down his visor and dove after her. She was already a receding green form beneath the sand. She glided down the face of the dune and toward the wide flat space where the market square lay. Conner strained to catch up. He joined Vic as she slowed and slid through the earth on her back, gazing up at the waves of purple, looking for the boots of those above, was probably planning on pulling them down into the sand to immobilize them, to smother them.
Conner felt the need to breathe. He wondered if he should turn back. He couldn’t hold his breath like Vic could. Would need to surface. He should’ve stayed and watched from the dune like she’d said. He’d been too impulsive, too eager.
When she saw him following along behind, he knew the same thoughts were occurring to her, could almost see the anger in the orange and red shape of her, the way the bright yellow of her visor trained on him. He lifted his palms in apology, to tell her he was going back, when the sand around him ceased to flow.
He thought it was Vic at first, that she was pushing him back, had put the brakes on him, but then she flew violently up through the sand. A moment later, with a sickening lurch, Conner shot up as well. He broke the surface and went into the air several feet, came down with a grunt as the air was knocked out of him.
He tried to flow the sand beneath him, but it was stonesand, locked tight. A gunshot exploded nearby, and Conner heard his sister cry out. Something was pressed against his back. His band and visor were torn from his head, the blinding world of purples returning to the orange sand and the bright sunlight. Someone patted him down roughly, two sets of hands running across his suit. They told him to sit up and patted along his chest, under and down both arms.