Mike Maden - River of Gods

The largest turtle of the bale approached, probably the oldest, she guessed, certainly the most graceful. As it pushed gently by, Bath reached out and grasped the top ridge of its shell, near the neck. Her air was thin and her lungs burned a little, but she didn’t dare let go. She couldn’t believe how swiftly and smoothly the big animal moved in the water. The ancient turtle clearly sensed she was holding on to him and it seemed to paddle faster, either to compensate for her weight or to shake her off. But it swam straight and didn’t seem distressed, so she held on. She felt such freedom. It was a dream come true, the chance to be at one with the—

Pain stabbed her ankle, like a knife cut. She wanted to scream but resisted, lest she drown. She released her grip on the turtle’s shell. Twisted around to see what had struck her.

It was another turtle, its beak clamped around her bleeding ankle. She couldn’t believe it.

But this turtle was different. The colors were right. So was the size. But the eyes.

Lifeless glass.

It wasn’t a turtle.

It was a machine, built exactly like a sea turtle.

The drone turtle began paddling in reverse, pulling her down.

Bath felt the water from its powerful strokes brush against her face. They were falling fast.

She kicked her seized leg, but the metal beak only cut deeper into her flesh. Blood clouded the water. The drone’s flippers paddled faster, the machine now pointing directly down into the inky black of the abyss. Stroke by stroke she was being pulled down, faster and faster. She heard the drone’s restless servos grinding in the water.

Bath glanced back up at the surface. The dappling sunlight was falling away fast. Searing pain exploded in her ears, like knitting needles stabbed into her eardrums. Her beating heart pounded inside her skull.

She kicked hard with her free leg, thrusting the big dive fin with all of her strength, clawing at the water above her head—anything to reverse direction. But the turtle was far too powerful and heavy. She felt the last of her air evaporate with the extra, futile effort.

Her lungs burned as if filled with acid. She looked back down at the turtle mindlessly plunging into the sunless void. Blood from her ankle streamed past her face. The freezing water burned her ungloved hands. She strained every muscle to bend forward and grasp her calf. She pulled with all of her strength. Nothing. The water turned from blue to black. She wanted to scream.

She couldn’t scream.

Had to scream.

Wasn’t fair.

Not this.

The turtle dived relentlessly, dragging Jasmine down with it, the two disappearing into the black, trailing bubbles and blood and the echoes of her wordless screams.

In the cabin of the boat, Dr. Kenji Yamada asked, “How much deeper?”

Pearce’s peace-loving whale researcher and UUV expert didn’t have much stomach for killing, but he understood its ecological necessity, especially in this case. Diseased animals had to be culled. The ponytailed scientist just couldn’t do it himself.

Pearce wouldn’t let him anyway. Pearce controlled the turtle drone. Had to.

Pearce had funded Yamada’s Honu project. Yamada used the funds to modify a Naro-Tortuga drone so that it looked exactly like a green sea turtle, enabling it to swim with and study the ones populating the Hawaiian Islands. Yamada never imagined the unit would be deployed like this.

Early’s death still haunted Pearce. He woke up some nights slapping at his face, certain that Early’s brains and blood were clinging to his skin. The days weren’t much better, haunted by the faces of Early’s small children streaked with tears, his sobbing widow, the folded American flag placed in her hands, the lowering casket. Mike was a true warrior and a true friend, and now he was truly gone.

Pearce had to make it right. Had to make the last person pay in full.

Jasmine Bath had to die.

But she’d been too clever. Covered all of her tracks, burned all of the bridges. Couldn’t be found.

Until now. Because Ian was better than Bath.

Ian called, said he had found Bath, gave him the details. Pearce worked out a plan, but not just to kill her. That was too easy. Wanted her to suffer, and worse. He knew that was wrong. He didn’t care, or couldn’t. The rage consumed him.

Hi-def and infrared cameras along with audio mics embedded in the drone’s head recorded every moment of Jasmine Bath’s raging, terrified misery. Pearce wanted her dead, but he needed to see her die. Badly.

She didn’t disappoint. She put on quite a show the deeper she went. Thrashing and screaming in a hail of bubbles until the last one dribbled away, the light dimming in her panicked, bloodshot eyes until she finally let go.

But the drone didn’t. It swam deeper still.

Bath’s limp arms trailed above her head, hair braids pluming in the frigid water as the blackening deep swallowed her up in silence.

“She’s dead, Troy,” Yamada said. “You can release her now.”

Pearce wanted to, but couldn’t. Couldn’t shake the image of Early’s head exploding in front of his eyes.

Drowning Bath wasn’t enough, terrible as that was. He wanted to drag her down to crush depth, watch her body erupt in a pink, gory cloud.

Wanted to drag her down to hell.

But Yamada was right. The woman was dead. The debt paid.

Pearce released his grip on the controller. Let her go. Watched her corpse drift away into the fathomless dark.

His rage, too.

He was free.

Pearce’s cabin

Near the Snake River, Wyoming

1 December

The night was cold and clear, the Milky Way a vast gauzy film across a moonless, blue-black expanse. Snow-heavy pines creaked in a light breeze.

Pearce stood on the porch, pistol on his hip, coffee in hand. He thought about Daud.

He’d rebuilt the cabin all by himself. Taken him months, but it was worth it. Time to get sober again. Time to process everything, especially what Mossa had said back in the desert. The old man was right. Pearce was a masterless warrior. Useless.

The bright halogen lights of an SUV bounced into the tree line, inching its way along an unlit path in the snow. Pearce couldn’t be sure who it was from here. Bath had a network of wet-work operators. Even dead, she could get her revenge if she was vindictive enough and had signed the right kind of contracts.

Pearce had gone completely off the grid at the cabin, no electronics of any kind, including surveillance. After Ian had filled him in on all the details of his hacking op against Bath and the others, Pearce decided it was time to go back to basics, at least out here. Fireplaces, axes, well water, dried fish. He went completely off the grid at the cabin, no electronics of any kind, including surveillance. Connectivity meant vulnerability. He preferred the sound of chopping wood to laser printing anyway. He had all of the electronic gear he needed in the RV, and at his condo in Coronado, not to mention Pearce Systems headquarters in Dearborn. But out here was his solitude and silence. This was his desert.

The SUV cleared the tree line and approached the cabin. Pearce squinted in the harsh lights. Tossed his coffee and set the cup down on the rough-hewn table. The SUV lights snapped off.

Heavy doors slammed shut. Two figures in hooded parkas exited the SUV. Dark shadows crunched in the snow, trudging toward him. A figure emerged into the firelight from the window flickering in the snow. She pulled down her hood.