The Fog Diver by Joel Ross Page B

tell you everything after we eat. Now where’s Chess? Lurking in the background?”
    â€œI don’t lurk,” I told her, stepping forward. “I skulk.”
    â€œThen we’re all here,” she said. “Now sit down and eat.”
    Swedish grabbed two slices. He gave one to Bea as I started wolfing down a third. The sweetness melted on my tongue and warmth spread in my stomach, but Hazel just toyed with her slice, eyeing Mrs. E.
    â€œDid your friend tell you something?” she asked, taking a bite. “What happened?”
    â€œHe brought news.”
    â€œWhat kind of news?”
    Mrs. E took a shaky breath. “Terrible news.”
    The sweet bread in my mouth turned to mud. “Is it . . . Kodoc?”
    Mrs. E nodded. “Kodoc heard that one of his ‘test subjects’ survived the cages as an infant—he’s on the hunt for Chess.”
    â€œHow?” Swedish demanded while Hazel gasped, “No!”
    â€œHe’s suspected for weeks,” Mrs. E said, swaying in her seat. “Because of the rumors. He’s been scouring the mountain, checking every child between the ages of ten and fifteen. And once he’s done there . . .”
    â€œAfter he finishes the Rooftop,” Hazel said. “He’ll startsearching in the slum.”
    â€œHe’ll find Chess,” Mrs. E whispered, her face paling. “You need to hide, you need to run. . . .”
    Her voice faded, her head dipped, and she slumped sideways, falling toward the floor.

18
    S WEDISH CAUGHT M RS. E as she fainted, and the rest of us jumped from our chairs.
    â€œC’mon,” Hazel told Swedish. “Bring her to bed.”
    She followed him through the traffic-sign door while I picked at a crack on the tabletop. I thought about Mrs. E climbing into the Fog to save me, about my mother dying, my father being handed a baby with one freakish eye. And about being Kodoc’s creation: not just born a freak, but made a freak.
    Now he was coming for me.
    â€œAt least we’re already planning to leave,” Bea said. “I mean, Kodoc knows about you, but that doesn’t change anything.”
    â€œExcept that there are a thousand roof-troopers hunting for us now.”
    â€œOther than that,” she agreed. “But we were trying to get to Port Oro anyway.”
    â€œWhich would be easy if we could sell the ring. But we owe the bosses for the raft, and they won’t let us leave without paying. Our only way to pay is—”
    â€œThe diamond!” she blurted, brightening. “Show me, show me!”
    I almost smiled at her enthusiasm. But when I reached to unsnap my boot pocket, Swedish and Hazel returned to the main room, looking grim.
    â€œIs she okay?” Bea asked them, her brightness fading.
    Hazel fiddled with her braid. “She’s not great.”
    â€œNot great ?” Swedish rubbed his face. “More like ‘terrible.’”
    â€œYeah, well . . . at least she’s sleeping comfortably.”
    â€œFor now,” Swedish said.
    Hazel nodded. “Let’s talk in the workshop, so we don’t bother her.”
    We went into the front room, where Swedish opened a hatch in the floor. Inside, a rope ladder dangled down a shaft that led to the shadowy underside of the slum, beneath the platforms where fans roared and sludge dripped, fifty feet above the Fog.
    The workshop was bolted under the platform, a squareroom with telefoam poles for a frame, tightly woven cables for walls, and scraps of alumina drywall for a floor. It was where Bea tinkered, designing and building the thoppers that Swedish flew in drag races.
    When she fiddled with a knob, a soft glow shone over dinged tools, scratched dials, and a battered foggium compressor. A workbench sat against one wall, with tidy racks of bolts, wire, and old lenses, and a large rectangular hole opened in the middle of the floor. The thopper—about the size of an