Bloodline

“Here she is,” Jack said, stopping ahead. “My new pride and joy. The Ghost.”

Gray didn’t see anything moored in the neighboring berth.

Jack leaped from the dock, as if to plunge into the water, but he landed on a firm surface. Only then did Gray appreciate the docked vessel as it rocked under the man’s weight. Even still, it was hard to discern its presence against the dark water.

The submersible’s bulk remained below the waterline. Only a conning-tower-like hatch protruded above the surface and a fraction of its upper deck. What made it so hard to discern, what made it blend so well with the water, was that it appeared to be sculpted out of glass.

Jack tapped his toe against the clear surface. “Her shell’s made out of a new borosilicate polymer, strong as steel yet with a low refractive index, perfect for underwater viewing. And the deeper you go, the harder the glass becomes. Up to a point, of course. I’m not planning on testing that limit today.”

“I see why you call it the Ghost,” Seichan said.

“She’s my new love-comes with all the bells and whistles a guy could want.” He ticked them off proudly. “The latest sonar and communications equipment, fly-by-wire joystick, electronic buoyancy controls, expanded air supply. But what really gets me purring is her sexy curves. I designed her after the old X-1 mini-submarines. Sleek, fast, and seductive.”

Kowalski snorted at the hyperbole. “Do you need a moment alone with her?”

“Do you still want that cigar?” Jack countered.

Kowalski hung his head a bit. “Sorry, I should know better than to insult another guy’s girl. She’s sexy. Very, very sexy.”

“That’s more like it,” Jack encouraged with a huge, bawdy grin. “C’mon aboard. Let’s get you all settled. We have a bit of a jaunt to reach Utopia, but then again, whoever said getting into heaven was easy?”

Ignoring the man’s joviality, Gray stared toward the horizon, unable to shed his dark mood, knowing Amanda was not having this much fun.

1:30 A.M.

The next contraction wracked her body.

Amanda sobbed, tears streaming down her heated face. Waves of nausea swept through her. Sweat soaked her gown to her skin. The worst of the pain was dulled by the miniepidural they’d given her, but not all of it.

“Dilated eight centimeters,” Petra reported from between her legs.

“Right on schedule.” Dr. Blake stood at her bedside, evaluating a labor monitor. “That was a good contraction. But I’m pushing another bolus of pit.”

Pit was slang for pitocin, a labor-inducing drug.

He injected the medicine into her IV line, then turned his attention to Amanda. He took her hand, which was strapped in place to the bed, and gave her fingers a squeeze.

“Would you like some more ice chips?”

Fury cut through her. She dug her nails into the tender flesh of his wrist. “Fuck you,” she spat at him. She never swore, but it felt good to do so now. “You goddamned monster.”

“I’ll get you some ice chips,” he said, unfazed by her outburst. He gently but firmly freed his arm, then patted her hand. “Everything’s going well. You’re doing great.”

Other medical staff worked at the periphery, monitoring vitals, trading out dirty linens that she’d soiled, dragging in equipment. A pair off to the side were preparing a radiant warming crib in anticipation of the newborn’s arrival.

Blake returned with a tiny paper cup full of crushed ice chips. He lifted it to her lips. But she turned her head away, refusing to cooperate in even this small measure.

She willed her body to resist, too.

I won’t let them have my boy.

But nature-fueled by strong drugs-could not be stopped. Minutes later, pressure again rose inside her abdomen, a storm front rising from deep inside her, as relentless as the tide. She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing what was coming.

No… please, no…

Her plea fell to ashes. The next contraction tore through her. She screamed-not so much in pain as knowing she was losing this last battle.

“Push!” Blake said, but he sounded far away.

She fought against it, but her body was no longer her own, transforming into a primitive machine, one forged in the evolutionary furnace of survival. Willing or not, all her flesh drove toward one function: to procreate, to move her genes forward into the future. She had no will but to obey.

Abdominal muscles contracted in a crushing heave.

Tissue ripped.

Blood flowed.

Pain became purpose.

“The baby’s crowning!” Petra called out, her voice ringing in triumph.

Lost deep in the violence of birth, Amanda cried out to the world, surrendering to the inevitable, driven now by the most basic of all maternal needs.

Someone save my baby.

1:44 A.M .

Seated inside the Ghost, Gray swiveled his chair to face the curved glass wall of the submersible. A pool of light cast by the sub’s headlamps illuminated the dark waters around the vessel as it coasted away from Palm Jumeirah. The sandy seabed flowed a few feet below his toes.

The effect was unnerving. The clear borosilicate shell allowed a full spherical view of the surrounding waters. Like floating in an air bubble, he thought, which wasn’t far from the truth.

The Ghost was little more than a tapered glass cylinder strapped into a hydrogen- cell-battery propulsion drive. Ancillary electrical, mechanical, and engineering systems acted as an exoskeleton around the living quarters.

Curious denizens, drawn by their light, would dart up, stare googly-eyed at the strange sight, then flash back into the blackness.

He could imagine what they saw.

The vessel reminded him of the neon tetras he once raised as a kid. He’d lie on his bed for hours, staring as the tiny fishes darted back and forth inside his aquarium. Tetras were best known for their iridescent blue and red racing stripes, but Gray had always been fascinated by their translucent skin. Their spine, ribs, even their quivering tiny hearts were exposed for the world to see. At the moment, he felt similarly naked, like he’d been swallowed up by a giant version of a glassy tetra.

Still, he had to admit the panorama was stunning.

One passenger was not as impressed.

“This is so wrong,” Kowalski said. He was seated across from Gray; the big man had one palm against the glass window, another on the ceiling. He stared between his legs. “How long is this going to take? What if we run out of air?”

Gray recognized the space was cramped, especially for someone of Kowalski’s bulk. Jack piloted the craft from a single seat up in the nose. The four chairs in back left little room to maneuver. Even Kane had to balance on Tucker’s lap, panting at the view, ears high, trembling all over.

Seichan sat behind Kowalski and reached a reassuring hand to touch his shoulder. “Calm down. We’ve got plenty of air.” She patted his back. “I’d be more worried about us springing a leak.”

Kowalski swiveled in his seat, searching around the cabin with wide eyes.

Gray gave her a scolding look. All they needed was a panicked bull in their midst.

“How much farther?” Kowalski moaned.

The answer came from up front. “We have to cross the entire World to reach your destination.”