Ship Breaker (Ship Breaker #1)(36)

Nailer let himself lie back on the deck. The sun blazed overhead. He was freezing. His father crouched beside him. When he touched Nailer’s shoulder, Nailer cried out. Richard shook his head.

“Damn, Lucky Boy, looks like you’re going to need some medicine.” He looked out across the bay to the ship-breaking yards. “As soon as we get some of this scavenge off, we’ll go make a deal with Lucky Strike. He should have a ’cillin. Maybe even a suppressor cocktail.”

“I n-n-n-eed it s-s-soon,” Nailer whispered.

His father nodded. “I know, son. I know that. But when we show up, we’re going to have to explain how we can pay for your meds, and then there’ll be questions about how your old man got so much silver and gold.” One of Nita’s rings flashed in his hand. “Look at this here.” He held it up to the light. “Diamonds. Rubies probably. You found a swanky girl, all right.” He shoved the ring into his pocket. “But we can’t sell until we’ve got the muscle in place. Otherwise they’ll try and pull it all out from under us.”

He looked at Nailer seriously. “This was a lucky find, boy. We got to play it smart though, or we’ll lose it all.”

“Yeah,” Nailer said, but he was losing interest in the conversation. He was tired. Cold and tired. Another wave of shaking swept over him. His father yelled at his men to bring some blankets.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “Soon as we have the score secure, we’ll get your meds.” He stroked Nailer on the cheek; his pale eyes looked as bright and crazed as Nailer felt his own must be.

“I won’t let you die, son. Don’t you worry. We’ll get you taken care of. You’re my blood and I’ll take good care of you.”

And then he was gone and Nailer sank into fever.

13

“So that’s your dad, huh?”

Nailer opened his eyes to find Nita kneeling beside him. He was lying on solid ground, the sound of the ocean far distant. A rough blanket covered him. It was nighttime. A small fire crackled beside them. He tried to sit up, but his shoulder hurt and he lay back again. Felt bandages, new ones, different from the ones Sadna had given him a lifetime before.

“Where’s Pima?”

Nita shrugged. “They’ve got her fetching food.”

“Who?”

She nodded over at two shadows who sat not far away, smoking cigarettes and passing a bottle of booze back and forth, their gang piercings twinkling in the darkness, rings running along the ridges of their eyebrows and studding down the bridges of their noses. One, Moby, pale as a ghost, stringy and angular from sliding crystal. The other, that huge loom of shadow and muscle, the half-man Tool. They smiled at Nailer as he moved.

“Hey, hey, looks like Nailer’s gonna live.” Moby waved his liquor bottle at Nailer in a sort of toast. “Your dad said you were a tough little rat. Didn’t think you were going to make it, though.”

“How long have I been down?”

Nita studied him. “I’m not sure you’re really up.”

“I’m up.”

“Three days, then, so far.”

Nailer tried to open his memories, seeking any recollection of the last three days. There were dreams, nightmares, but nothing solid, periods of heat and cold and shaking images of his father peering into his eyes…

Nita glanced back at the two men. “They were betting on whether you’d live.”

“Yeah?” Nailer grimaced and tried to sit up. “What were the stakes?”

“Fifty Red Chinese.”

Nailer looked at her, surprised. Those were big stakes. More than a month’s wages on heavy crew. The scavenging of her ship must have been successful. “Who bet on me living?”

“The skinny one. The half-man was sure you were dead.” She helped him sit up. He didn’t feel like he had a fever anymore. Nita pointed at a bottle of pills, swank pills by the lettering on the side. “We’ve been grinding those up and putting them in water. The other guy”—she paused, hunting for a name—“Lucky Strike. He sent a doctor.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re supposed to keep taking the pills, four a day for another ten days.”

Nailer eyed the pills without enthusiasm. Three days unconscious. “Your people haven’t showed up yet?” he asked. It seemed obvious that they hadn’t.

Nita glanced over at the men, suddenly nervous, then shrugged. “Not yet. Soon I think.”

“Better hope so.”

She gave him a dirty look. As she turned away from him, he spied the manacle that connected her ankle to one of the big cypress trees. She caught the direction of his gaze. “They’re not taking any chances.”

Nailer nodded. A minute later Pima appeared, chaperoned by a third adult. Blue Eyes. The woman had scars carved into her arms and legs, bits of scrap steel embedded in her face and necklaces of scavenge twined around her throat. A long zipper of scar tissue in her side showed where she had made a devotional sacrifice to the Harvesters and the Life Cult. She shoved Pima forward.

Moby glanced over. “Hey, careful with the kid. She’s got my dinner.”

Blue Eyes ignored him, instead looked at Nailer. “He’s alive?”

“What’s it look like?” Moby answered. “ ’Course he’s alive. Unless he’s a zombie, walking dead. Woooooooo.” He laughed at his own joke.