Either way, you had to die to get there.
The work went on. Nailer stripped more wire, tossing the junk insulation over the ship’s side. The sun beat down on everyone. Their skins gleamed. Salt sweat jewels soaked their hair and dripped into their eyes. Their hands turned slick with work, and their crew tattoos shone like intricate knots on their flushed faces. For a little while they talked and joked but gradually fell silent, working the rhythm of scavenge, building piles of copper for whoever was rich enough to afford it.
“Boss man coming!”
The warning call came up from the waters below. Everyone hunkered down, looking busy, waiting to see who would appear at the rail. If it was someone else’s boss, they could relax—
Bapi.
Nailer grimaced as their crew boss clambered up over the rail, huffing. His black hair gleamed, and his potbelly made it hard for him to climb, but there was money involved, so the bastard managed.
Bapi leaned against the rail, regaining his breath. Sweat darkened the tank top that he wore for work. Yellow and brown stains of whatever curry or sandwich he’d eaten for lunch dotted the material. It made Nailer hungry just looking at all that food on Bapi’s chest, but there was no meal coming until evening, and there was no point looking at food Bapi would never share.
Bapi’s quick brown eyes studied them, alert for signs that they’d gone lazy and weren’t serious about scavenging for quota. Even though none of them had been idle before, with Bapi watching they all worked faster, trying to demonstrate they were worth keeping. Bapi had been light crew himself once; he knew their ways, knew the tricks of laziness. It made him dangerous.
“What you got?” he asked Pima.
Pima glanced up, squinting into the sun. “Copper. Lots. Nailer found new ducts that Gorgeous’s crew missed.”
Bapi’s teeth flashed white, showing the front gap where a fight had cost him his incisors. “How much?”
Pima jerked her head at Nailer, giving him permission.
“Maybe hundred, hundred and twenty kilos so far,” Nailer estimated. “There’s more down there.”
“Yeah?” Bapi nodded. “Well, hurry and get it out. Don’t worry about stripping it. Just make sure you get it all.” He looked out toward the horizon. “Lawson & Carlson says a storm’s coming. Big one. We’re going to be off the wrecks for a couple days. I want enough wire that you can work it on the sand.”
Nailer stifled his distaste at the thought of going back down into the blackness, but Bapi must have caught something of his expression.
“Got a problem, Nailer? You think a storm means you get to sit on your ass?” Bapi waved toward the work camps strung along the beach’s jungle edge. “You think I can’t get a hundred other licebiters to take your place? There’s kids down there who’d let me cut out an eye if it would get them up on a wreck.”
Pima interceded. “He’s got no problem. You want the wire, we’ll get it. No problem.” She glared at Nailer. “We’re your crew, boss. No problem at all.”
They all nodded emphatically. Nailer got to his feet and handed the rest of his wire over to Tick-tock. “No problem, boss,” he repeated.
Bapi scowled at Nailer. “You sure you vouch for him, Pima? I can put a knife through this one’s crew tats and dump him on the sand.”
“He’s good scavenge,” she said. “We’re ahead on quota ’cause of him.”
“Yeah?” Bapi relented slightly. “Well, you’re boss girl. I don’t interfere.” He eyed Nailer. “You watch it, boy. I know how your kind thinks. Always imagining you’re going to be a Lucky Strike. Pretending you’ll find some big old oil pocket and never work another day in your life. Your old man was a lazy bastard like that. Look how he turned out.”
Nailer felt a rising anger. “I don’t talk about your dad.”
Bapi laughed. “What? You gonna fight me, boy? Try and pigstick me from behind the way your old man would?” Bapi touched his knife. “Pima vouches for you, but I’m wondering if you got the sense to know how much of a favor she’s doing.”
“Let it go, Nailer,” Pima urged. “Your dad’s not worth it.”
Bapi watched, smiling slightly. His hand lingered close to his knife. Bapi had all the cards, and they both knew it. Nailer ducked his head and forced down his anger.
“I’ll get your scavenge, boss. No problem.”
Bapi gave Nailer a sharp nod. “Smarter than your old man, then.” He turned to the rest of the crew. “Listen up, everyone. We don’t have a lot of time. If you get the extra scavenge out before the storm, I’ll bonus you. There’s another light crew coming on soon. We don’t want to leave them any easy pickings, right?”
He grinned, feral, and they all nodded back. “No easy pickings,” they echoed.
2
NAILER WAS FARTHER into the tanker than he’d ever been. No light crew marks gleamed in the darkness, no evidence of any other duct-and-scuttle workers marred the dust and rat droppings of the passage.
Overhead, three separate lines of copper wire ran ahead of him, a lucky find that meant he might even make Bapi’s quota, but Nailer was having a hard time caring. His mask kept clogging, and in the rush to dive back into the hole, he’d forgotten to renew his LED paint patch. Now he regretted it bitterly as darkness closed in.
He ripped down more tangling wire. The passage seemed to be getting narrower, even as the amount of copper increased. He eased forward, and the duct creaked all around, protesting his weight. Petroleum fumes burned in his lungs. He wished he could just quit and crawl out. If he turned around now, he could be back on deck in twenty minutes, breathing clean air.
But what if he didn’t have enough scavenge?
Bapi already didn’t like him. And Sloth was too damn eager to steal his slot. Her words still lingered in his mind: “I’ll get twenty times the scavenge he does.”
A warning. He had competition now.
It didn’t matter that Pima vouched for him. If Nailer failed to pull quota, Bapi would slash out his work tattoos and give Sloth a try. And Pima couldn’t do a damn thing about it. No one was worth keeping if they didn’t make a profit.
Nailer wriggled onward, driven by Sloth’s hungry words. More and more copper came down in his hands. His LED faded to black. He was alone. Nothing but a trail of loosened electrical cable to lead him out. For the first time he feared he might not be able to find his way. The tanker was huge, one of the workhorses of the oil age, almost a floating city in itself. And now he was deep in its guts.
When Jackson Boy died, no one had been able to find him. They’d heard him banging away on the metal, calling out, but no could locate a way into the double hull where he’d trapped himself. A year later, heavy crews cut open a section of iron and the little licebiter’s mummified body had popped out like a pill from a blister pack. Dry like leaves, rattling as it hit the deck. Rat-chewed and desiccated.
Don’t think about it. You’ll just bring his ghost onto the ship.
The duct was tightening, squeezing around his shoulders. Nailer began to imagine himself stuck like a cork in a bottle. Pinned in the darkness, never able to get free. He strained forward and yanked down another length of wire.
Enough. More than enough.
Nailer hacked Bapi’s light crew code into the duct’s metal with his knife, doing it blind, but at least making a stab at saving the territory for later. He tightened himself into a ball. Knees against chin, elbows and spine scraping the duct walls as he turned himself around. Folding tighter, letting out his breath, fighting off images of corks and bottles and Jackson Boy caught in the darkness, dying alone. Tighter. Turning. Listening to the duct creak as he squeezed against metal.
He came free, gasping relief.
In another year, he’d be too big for this work and Sloth would take his niche for sure. He might be small for his age, but eventually everyone got too big for light crew.
Nailer squirmed back down the duct, rolling the wire ahead of him. The loudest sound was his own rasping brea
th in the filter mask. He paused and reached ahead for the loosened wire, confirming that it was still there, still leading him out to the light.
Don’t panic. You took this wire down yourself. You just need to keep following it—
A scuttling noise echoed behind him.
Nailer froze, skin crawling. A rat, probably. But it sounded big. Unbidden, another image intruded. Jackson Boy. Nailer could imagine the dead crew boy’s ghost in the ducts with him, creeping through the darkness. Stalking him. Reaching for his ankles with dry bone fingers.
Nailer fought down panic. It was just superstition. Paranoia was for Moon Girl, not for him. But the fear was in him now. He started shoving his scavenged wire aside, suddenly desperate for clean air and light. He’d crawl out, renew his LED paint, and then come back when he could see what was what. Screw Sloth and Bapi. He needed air.
Nailer started squeezing around his tangled bundle of copper. The duct creaked dangerously as he squirmed past, protesting the collected weight of himself and the wire. Stupid to gather so much. Should have cut it in sections and let Pima and Sloth spool it out. But he’d been hurrying, and now, of all things, he’d collected too much. Nailer clawed forward, jamming the wire aside. Felt a flush of triumph as he kicked the last tangling wires off his legs.
The duct groaned loudly and shuddered under him.
Nailer froze.
All around, the duct pinged and creaked. It sank slightly, tilting. The whole thing was on the verge of collapse. Nailer’s frantic activity and extra weight had weakened it.
Nailer spread out his weight and lay still, heart pounding. Trying to sense the duct’s intentions. The metal went quiet. Nailer waited, listening. Finally, he eased forward, delicately shifting his weight.
Metal shrieked. The duct dropped out from under him. Nailer scrabbled for handholds as his world gave way. His fingers seized scavenged wire. For a second it held, suspending him above an infinite pit. Then the wire tore loose. He plummeted.
I don’t want to be a Jackson Boy I don’t want to be a Jackson Boy I don’t—
He hit liquid, warm and viscous. Blackness swallowed him with barely a ripple.
3
SWIM YOU BASTARD swim you bastard swim you bastard…
Swim!
Nailer sank like a stone through warm reeking liquid. It was like trying to swim through thick air instead of water. No matter how hard he fought, the warmth gave way under him, sucking him deeper.
Why can’t I swim?
He was a good swimmer. Had never worried about drowning in the ocean, even in heavy surf. But now he kept sinking. His hand tangled in something solid—the copper wire. He grabbed for it, hoping it was still connected to the ducts above.
It slithered through his fingers, slick and slimy.
Oil!
Nailer fought off panic. It was impossible to swim in oil. It just swallowed you like quicksand. He clawed again for the copper and looped the wiring around his hand to counteract its slickness. His sinking stopped. He began hauling himself back up out of the muck. His lungs screamed for air. Hand over hand, he dragged himself higher. He fought the urge to breathe, to give up and fill his lungs with oil. It would be so easy—
He came out of the oil like a whale surfacing, oil sheeting off his face. He opened his mouth to breathe.
Nothing. Just a strange pressure on his face.
The mask!
Nailer tore it off, gasping. Sucked air. Petroleum vapors burned his lungs, but he could breathe. He used the mask’s clean interior to scrape at his eyes, clearing oil away. He opened them to an intense stinging and burning. Tears filled his eyes. He blinked rapidly.
Blackness all around. Pitch blackness.
He was in some kind of oil reservoir, maybe a leaked pool, or some secondary storage chamber, or… He had no idea where he was in the ship. If he was really unlucky, he was in one of the main oil reservoirs. He finished wiping his eyes and tossed away the now useless mask. The fumes were dizzying. He forced himself to breathe shallowly as he clung to the wire. His skin burned with its petroleum coating. Hammers rang faintly in the distance—workers banging away at the ship, all unaware of his emergency.
His hands started to slide off the wire. Nailer grabbed desperately for a better handhold, hooking his arm through the tangles. Overhead, the duct creaked alarmingly. A tingle of fear ran through him. A few strands of wire that stretched to that high overhead duct were all that kept him from drowning. But the safety was temporary. Soon the duct would give way and he’d sink again, his lungs filling with oil, thrashing and gurgling—
Calm down, you idiot.
Nailer considered trying to swim again, but discarded the idea. It was just his mind playing tricks, fantasizing that the liquid all around was actually water. But oil was different. It didn’t support a body, no matter how much you wished. It just swallowed you up. Nailer had seen a man on heavy crew drown that way. He’d thrashed briefly in the oil, shouting and panicked, then slipped under, long before anyone could throw him a rope.
Don’t panic. Think.
Nailer reached out, fingers straining into the blackness. Reaching for anything: a wall, some bit of floating junk, anything to tell him where he was. His hand found nothing but air and mucky oil. His movements made the duct creak overhead. The wire sank slightly as something gave way. Nailer held his breath, expecting to go under, but the wire stopped sinking.
“Pima!” he shouted.
His voice echoed back fast, bouncing all around.
Nailer clutched the wire, surprised. Judging from the sound, he wasn’t in as big a space as he’d thought. There were walls nearby. “Pima!”
Again the fast echo.
This wasn’t some giant oil tank. It was much, much smaller. Heartened by the impression of walls, Nailer reached out again. But this time, instead of using a hand, he stretched out into the darkness with this toes.
After two tries, rough metal met his skin. A wall of some sort, and something else… Nailer sucked in a grateful breath. A thin pipe running along its breadth. It was only a centimeter in diameter, but still, it had to be better than a tangle of copper dangling from a failing duct.
Without waiting to reconsider, Nailer lunged for the wall.
As he moved, the ducting overhead shrieked and gave way. Nailer sank, thrashing and scrabbling for the thin pipe. His slick hands touched the wall, slipped off. Caught. He dragged himself up against the wall, clinging by his fingertips. They trembled with the strain. The oil didn’t give him any float at all. Already he was tiring. He couldn’t support himself for long.
Quickly, Nailer slid along the wall, seeking better handholds. If he was lucky, maybe there was a ladder. He reached a bend in the pipe. It turned sharply downward and disappeared into the oil.
Nailer stifled a sob of frustration. He was going to die.
Don’t panic.
If he started crying he was screwed. He needed to think, not bawl like a baby, but already his mind felt drunk and scattered. The fumes were overwhelming. Nailer could see how this would end. He’d hang on for a little longer, inhaling more and more of the poisonous air, clinging like a bug to the wall, but eventually he’d get too tired and high, and he’d slip off.
How could he die in such a stupid way? This wasn’t even a storage tank. Just some room full of pooled waste oil. It was a joke, really. Lucky Strike had found an oil pocket on a ship and bought his way free. Nailer had found one and it was going to kill him.
I’m going to drown in goddamn money.
Nailer almost laughed at the thought. No one knew exactly how much oil Lucky Strike had found and smuggled out. The man had done it slow, over time. Sneaking it out bucket by bucket until he had enough to buy out his indenture and burn off his work tattoos. But he’d had enough left over to set himself up as a labor broker selling slots into the very heavy crews that he’d escaped. Just a little oil had done so much for Lucky Strike, and Nailer was up to his neck in the damn stuff.
“Nail
er?”
The voice was faint, far away.
“Sloth!” Nailer’s voice cracked with relief. “I’m here! Down here! I fell through!” He kicked in his excitement and the oil rippled around him.
A bit of green light illuminated the gloom above. Sloth’s scavenge features peered through the duct hole, an LED smear on her forehead.
“Damn. You screwed big-time, Nailer?” she asked.
“Yeah. Big-time screwed.” He grinned weakly.
“Pima sent me in for you.”
“Tell her I need rope.”
A long pause. “Bapi won’t do it.”
“Why?”
Another long silence. “He wants copper. Sent me in for copper. Before the storm comes.”
“Just drop me a rope.”
“Gotta make quota.” Her glow face disappeared. “Pima sent stuff, case I found you. Case you needed help.”
Nailer grimaced. “You see a ladder anywhere?”
Another long pause as they both peered at the gloom with her phosphor green paint lighting. Nothing. No ladders. No doors. Just a rusty room filled with black murk.
“What’s wrong with you?” Sloth asked. “You broke something?”
Nailer shook his head before remembering she probably couldn’t see him well. “I’m swimming in oil. You tell Bapi I’m up to my neck in oil. Thousands of gallons. It’s worth his while to get me out. There’s a lot of oil for him here.”
Another pause.
“Yeah? A lot?”
Nailer realized with a chill that sly Sloth was calculating the advantages.
“Don’t think you can do a Lucky Strike,” he called up.
“Lucky Strike did it,” she responded.
“We’re crew,” Nailer said, trying to keep his voice from showing fear. “You tell Pima there’s oil. You tell her there’s a secret stash. If you don’t, I’ll haunt you like Jackson Boy and come back and gut you while you’re sleeping.”