Rising Tide by Rajan Khanna Page B

gives me something back. Makes me feel more like myself.
    Next he hands me my shirt. It’s also worn, but thick, soft, warm. It bears a check pattern that used to be dark but has faded to mostly assorted shades of grey. I shrug it on over the t-shirt that I’ve been wearing.
    â€œYour coat,” Mal says, “didn’t fare well during your immersion in the ocean.” He holds it up, and I see it warped and peeling like a dying tree.
    â€œI need a coat,” I say.
    He holds up a hand, placatingly. “I know. And though clothing is as valuable as ever, I can’t send you out into the world without one. So . . . here.” He lifts up something long and dark. “This should fit you.”
    I take it from him and hold it up. It’s different than my previous coat. I worry about its length. I like to keep my legs free—unencumbered. The material isn’t leather but something thick. It would be tough to tear through. “I guess this is my only choice?” I ask.
    He nods.
    I put the coat on. It’s heavier than my old one, and it falls to my calves. I don’t like the feeling of it on my legs. But it fits pretty well and has plenty of pockets to stash ammo or barter in. The collar can be turned up to protect my neck.
    â€œGood,” Mal says. Like that’s that. And I guess it is.
    â€œOne last thing,” I say. I reach for my old coat and find the Star of David that I had pinned to it. I take it off and pin it instead to my new coat. The pin doesn’t penetrate the fabric, but I am able to thread it to one of the fasteners so that it sits over my heart.
    Mal raises an eyebrow. “You were never one for affectations.”
    â€œThings change.”
    He grunts. Then he rummages in a bag and pulls out my father’s revolver. “Some things don’t.” He holds it up by the handle. “I couldn’t actually believe that you still have this.”
    I narrow my eyes. “It has sentimental value.” Then immediately regret saying it. If Mal wants to fuck with me, not giving me the revolver would be a good way to do that. “Can I have it?”
    Mal screws up his lips. “No,” he says. “Not now. I will give it to your escorts. If it’s necessary, they will give it to you. However, if you insist on being an irritant or, worse, a problem, then I will instruct them to toss it into the ocean. Are we understood?”
    I nod. Like everything else about this deal, it’s not as bad as it could be. But it’s not good. One opportunity will be hard enough to find. More? I just hope his people are lax.
    I reach down to the coat pockets. They’re a little lower than my old ones, and a bit deeper. I don’t know that they will allow for a good draw.
    â€œHold on,” I say. “I need a holster.”
    â€œWhy?” Mal asks. “You have no gun.”
    I sigh and roll my eyes. “No. But if I need to use it, I’ll need one.”
    Mal just stares at me.
    â€œIt could be the difference between life and death,” I say. “And if I die getting you your pumps, then you don’t get the pumps.”
    It’s not strictly true. But true enough. I see Mal weighing it in his mind.
    â€œI’ll see what I can do,” he says. “My people will bring you up on deck.”
    He looks down at his hands, splayed out on the table in front of him. Then he meets my eyes again. “Good luck, Benjamin.”
    â€œThanks,” I say.
    â€œDon’t take too long.”
    I nod. “How long do you think I have?”
    He shrugs. “A few days. Three at most.”
    The clock starts ticking.

CHAPTER FOUR
    FROM THE JOURNAL OF MIRANDA MEHRA
    In my history of studying the Maenad Virus, I don’t think it’s ever confounded me as much as Ben Gold. Maybe because viruses, even considering mutation, tend to act according to understandable principles.
    Ben Gold . . . not so