A Day of Faces

Hive

It was late afternoon by the time the ship had finished docking. Gigantic cranes were already starting to offload the containers as we made it onto the walkway that ran the length of the deck. I couldn't see any people around - it was all automated machinery and, of course, the containers would simply become self-driving trucks once they were back on the road.

Furey led us down to the back of the boat, past column after column of containers, stacked high above us. Even at the rate the cranes were emptying the ship, it was still two rows high along its length. I looked over the rail at the dock, where the containers were swung around and dropped into position before leaving in convoy. Everything was wet: the floor, the railing, the containers beside us. We hurried along in silence, following Furey, me bringing up the rear, until we reached a small red box mounted on the railing. Furey knelt and opened it up, pulling out a rope ladder.

"Handy," Marv said.

She fixed it onto the railing, then flung it off the side of the ship. I heard it clatter against the hull. "Looks clear," she said. "You both go first."

"Really?" I asked.

"Better vantage point from up here. Anything goes wrong, I'll be there."

Marv went first, then I awkwardly clambered over the railing, trying not to get caught up in my robe, and lowered myself onto the ladder rungs. Once I was on the ladder I was fine, but going over the railing gave me serious vertigo - it was always that precipice moment that did it for me. I descended step by careful step, cursing my the cloth flapping about my feet and the veil preventing me from seeing anything useful.

Those freighters are big, in every way. Miles long, sure, that's obvious. But it's not until you're on a ladder dangling off the side that you fully appreciate that they're also taller than most buildings. We're talking four floors, not counting the extra containers piled on top. And don't forget they go down who-knows-how-far under the water. My brain has a hard time wrapping itself around that one.

The ground felt weird. The ship had been pretty stable, or so I'd thought, but I guess my body had been compensating more than I'd realised, as the ground seemed to be rolling from side-to-side. After a moment it subsided and I realised it was my body still trying to counter the ship's movement. Still, I was grateful to have a few moments before Furey got down to us.

"What about the ladder?" Marv asked, squinting up at the ship, the railing now almost too small to make out.

"Someone will come and haul it back up in ten minutes," Furey said. "Once they've finished scrubbing the room of any evidence we were ever there."

"They do this a lot?"

"Jumping on a ship is useful for skipping passport checks and customs. Though it's usually migrants. You're an unusual cargo."

"You make me feel so special," Marv said with a smile.

"This dock is built on reclaimed land," Furey said, already walking. "It's five miles back to the island proper. Let's go."

I don't sweat much. I can vent heat efficiently, especially if I keep to the shade, but that gets a little trickier when I'm covered head-to-toe. By the time we cleared the docks I was almost ready to drop.

But then I saw the city. It stretched above us, countless neon-infused spires, all the way up into the clouds. Shining, reflected light bounced around the sky and I couldn't tell where one skyscraper ended and another began. Some even seemed to have walkways connecting their upper floors. They were built right up to the waterfront, where they suddenly stopped, revealing an open expanse of dark, grey harbour water, until the structures erupted back up into the sky across the bay. It was a solid wall of architecture. If there were any trees, I couldn't see them from here. I'd read a little about the equivalent place on Locque and it was nothing like this.

We disappeared into the streets. They were busy, such that you couldn't see more than a couple of feet ahead, with people rushing to get home or to the shops bustling and pushing in all directions. Occasionally we'd have to edge our way around people who were sat right in the middle of the pavement, begging for food or money and often missing entire limbs. I could see Marv paying them particular attention. But we had nothing to give.

The crowds were so dense that we had to hold each other's hands to avoid becoming entirely lost. The heat of all those bodies combined with the humidity, raising a stench and making me feel even more claustrophobic.

Furey led us down street after street, such that I had no idea how far we'd travelled from the docks, or even in what direction. Then she suddenly ducked into an open doorway leading into an old, concrete building.

"This place goes back centuries," she murmured. "Used to be where people would park cars. Now it's been filled out with homes, offices, you name it. You can set up in these and nobody will ever notice."

We made our way up a brutal, chunky staircase, climbing to the fifth floor. The floor was a mall of sorts, lined with brightly lit market stalls selling all kinds of gadgets and clothing. The stalls were set out as a maze of low-ceilinged corridors and we stayed closed to Furey as she led us through, until we entered a small shop with a glass front decked out in glitzy jewellery. Furey nodded at the small, wrinkly man behind the counter and he fiddled with something out of sight, prompting a portion of the wall to swing open, revealing a dark passageway beyond.

"Awesome," said Marv.

The door closed again as soon as we were all in, and cold lights flickered on overhead to light our way. We were in a narrow, grey corridor, which led to another staircase. At the top was a solid-looking door, upon which Furey knocked out a complicated tune.

The door opened and a youngish man waved us in.

"Furey," he said, "I'm glad they sent you. Did you have any problems?"

"What do you think?"

He took us through another series of doors, explaining that they had half of the entire floor. They were the equivalent to the Lynts back where we'd come from, but on a much grander scale. There was more security here, and everybody had a serious look on their face which was a far cry from the cosy, middle class rebellion of the Lynt farmhouse.

"We're in here," the man said, knocking once on a door and opening it for us. Through the doorway I could see a meeting room of sorts with several people sat inside. At the far end sat a man who seemed intensely familiar, but out of context it took me a moment to register his face.

"You took your time," he said, getting to his feet.

It was Wynton Simons.