me.
Fife probably used that line a lot. Not that it wasn’t fitting. “A patch of water where different currents meet up. It’s turbulent. Hard to navigate. Treacherous, even.”
“Hard to navigate” sure described my situation. I turned to look across the open sundeck, with its scattering of café tables. Unlike Rip Tide’s other levels, this one had only a few enclosed buildings and the drill tower in the center, so I had an unobstructed view of the surfs crowding along the railing that overlooked the drill well.
“One of them must know something,” I said, frustrated. “But they’re not going to talk to me.”
“You haven’t even tried,” Gemma pointed out. “Maybe they don’t all hate settlers.”
“That’s the only thing I’ve heard today that I don’t doubt.” I glanced at her. “What about you? Did you ask Shade if you can live on the
Specter
?”
“I couldn’t tell him that I’m homeless right beforehis match,” she said lightly. “It might have messed up his concentration.”
I nodded, though who knew what kind of shape Shade would be in after the match. Hopefully he’d still have both his ears.
Suddenly the image of Shade smearing fish oil over his skin put an idea in my head. “You’re right. I have to at least try talking to the surfs. But not as a pioneer.”
“How—”
“I have to cover up my shine so I can pass as something else … like a fisherman.”
She smiled, understanding my plan. “Pick a pretty color.”
Fishing boats bought zinc-paste by the barrel, usually in the color of their company logo. I just picked the color I liked best: the blue of the ocean on a sunny day at twenty feet down. With that, I stripped off my shirt and got the fastest zinc-paste body job on the ocean.
The slather shop attendant had agreed to hold on to my shirt and bandana until the end of the match. Now, smeared from hairline to hip bone in blue, I crossed the sundeck, confident that I looked like the fishermen forming blocks of color in the bleachers.
Holding my breath, I hurried past the food carts. On the fifth level, I’d passed many a Topsider clutching apaper cone of crispy fried seaweed. But up here, I didn’t see a single surf nibbling on samphire, the salty tangle of fried greens. Unlike most Topsiders, the surfs were meat eaters. Raw, cooked, or smoked—and often washed down with liquid whale blubber.
I liked eating fish, no question, but the big seller on the sundeck was fermented seal flipper, which smelled even fouler than it looked. Worse, the flipper came with dipping sauce, which was made from the contents of the seal’s intestines—partly digested clams and greens. At one point Ma had explained that the surfs didn’t have enough room on their townships to grow vegetables, so this was their solution—eating the seaweed out of sea mammals’ stomachs. Made mine turn over just thinking about it.
I passed the bleachers and felt the hair on my body prickle under the zinc-paste as I noticed all the gut-skin garments—ponchos, rain shirts, and sleeveless hooded coats—and thought of Raj’s charming theory: that the surfs made their waterproof outerwear out of human guts. I angled toward the nearest surf for a better look at the strips of translucent material that had been stitched together to make his anorak. Definitely an organic membrane of some sort, as sheer as a Topsider’s veil. Probably scraped-out intestines or maybe a stomach lining, though who knew from what?
I decided to push aside the unsettling thought, becauseit was now or never. Once the boxing match began, no one would be talking about Drift. Even if they were, I’d never hear it over the cheers and yells. Mustering my courage, I slipped into the crowd.
As soon as I’d gone two feet, the throng closed behind me and suddenly I felt like I’d plunged into the deep without inhaling Liquigen first. The water pressure in Coldsleep Canyon couldn’t have squeezed the air out of my lungs any
Fife probably used that line a lot. Not that it wasn’t fitting. “A patch of water where different currents meet up. It’s turbulent. Hard to navigate. Treacherous, even.”
“Hard to navigate” sure described my situation. I turned to look across the open sundeck, with its scattering of café tables. Unlike Rip Tide’s other levels, this one had only a few enclosed buildings and the drill tower in the center, so I had an unobstructed view of the surfs crowding along the railing that overlooked the drill well.
“One of them must know something,” I said, frustrated. “But they’re not going to talk to me.”
“You haven’t even tried,” Gemma pointed out. “Maybe they don’t all hate settlers.”
“That’s the only thing I’ve heard today that I don’t doubt.” I glanced at her. “What about you? Did you ask Shade if you can live on the
Specter
?”
“I couldn’t tell him that I’m homeless right beforehis match,” she said lightly. “It might have messed up his concentration.”
I nodded, though who knew what kind of shape Shade would be in after the match. Hopefully he’d still have both his ears.
Suddenly the image of Shade smearing fish oil over his skin put an idea in my head. “You’re right. I have to at least try talking to the surfs. But not as a pioneer.”
“How—”
“I have to cover up my shine so I can pass as something else … like a fisherman.”
She smiled, understanding my plan. “Pick a pretty color.”
Fishing boats bought zinc-paste by the barrel, usually in the color of their company logo. I just picked the color I liked best: the blue of the ocean on a sunny day at twenty feet down. With that, I stripped off my shirt and got the fastest zinc-paste body job on the ocean.
The slather shop attendant had agreed to hold on to my shirt and bandana until the end of the match. Now, smeared from hairline to hip bone in blue, I crossed the sundeck, confident that I looked like the fishermen forming blocks of color in the bleachers.
Holding my breath, I hurried past the food carts. On the fifth level, I’d passed many a Topsider clutching apaper cone of crispy fried seaweed. But up here, I didn’t see a single surf nibbling on samphire, the salty tangle of fried greens. Unlike most Topsiders, the surfs were meat eaters. Raw, cooked, or smoked—and often washed down with liquid whale blubber.
I liked eating fish, no question, but the big seller on the sundeck was fermented seal flipper, which smelled even fouler than it looked. Worse, the flipper came with dipping sauce, which was made from the contents of the seal’s intestines—partly digested clams and greens. At one point Ma had explained that the surfs didn’t have enough room on their townships to grow vegetables, so this was their solution—eating the seaweed out of sea mammals’ stomachs. Made mine turn over just thinking about it.
I passed the bleachers and felt the hair on my body prickle under the zinc-paste as I noticed all the gut-skin garments—ponchos, rain shirts, and sleeveless hooded coats—and thought of Raj’s charming theory: that the surfs made their waterproof outerwear out of human guts. I angled toward the nearest surf for a better look at the strips of translucent material that had been stitched together to make his anorak. Definitely an organic membrane of some sort, as sheer as a Topsider’s veil. Probably scraped-out intestines or maybe a stomach lining, though who knew from what?
I decided to push aside the unsettling thought, becauseit was now or never. Once the boxing match began, no one would be talking about Drift. Even if they were, I’d never hear it over the cheers and yells. Mustering my courage, I slipped into the crowd.
As soon as I’d gone two feet, the throng closed behind me and suddenly I felt like I’d plunged into the deep without inhaling Liquigen first. The water pressure in Coldsleep Canyon couldn’t have squeezed the air out of my lungs any
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