Free Dark Life: Rip Tide by Kat Falls

level would flood completely.
    These derelict platforms off the Commonwealth’s coasts had been converted into lots of things, like prisons. And wind and tide turbine islands, all with thick cables on the seafloor for sending the produced energy back to the mainland. But most became ramshackle towns, offering shelter to thousands of displaced people. Frankly, I would have preferred living on a converted drilling platform to being shut up in a stack-city. At least the platform was surrounded by sea and sky, not hemmed in by other concrete towers.
    Cruising the Slicky alongside Rip Tide, I looked for a place to hitch her but couldn’t find a single boat cleat oreven an entryway. The rusting metal walls bore only a thick crust of barnacles, mussels, limpets, and snails. Rip Tide might have been an impressive drilling platform in its day, with its seven decks and enormous center tower, but it sure didn’t make for a very welcoming town. Giving up, I rounded a corner and steered for the rocky coast.
    “There,” Gemma said, pointing up. “That’s how we get on.”
    Thick cables swung overhead, stretched between Rip Tide and the cliff, with two steel towers in between. The cliff was quite a ways off. But then a cable car came into view, and I realized it covered the distance fast. Packed with people, the car zipped over us and banged through an opening on a middle deck.
    “Did that look safe to you?” Gemma asked. “That didn’t look safe.”
    “See another way to get aboard?”
    “No,” she said, sounding grumpy.
    I sped the Slicky toward the coast, where I spotted clusters of vehicles moored at the base of the cliff. The docks were no more than long iron girders jutting into the waves. After locking down the Slicky’s control panel, I cracked the hatch in her side and winced. All of Rip Tide probably felt like this—like the inside of a space heater cranked to the max. I hitched the Slicky to a cleat, put on a low-brim hat for coverage, and tied a bandanaaround my neck like the people who lived on houseboats did. Of course, the floaters were trying to block the UV rays. Me, I just wanted to keep people from staring at my skin.
    Gemma hiked up her sari and we walked the length of the narrow girder with our arms out for balance. We passed a wide assortment of vehicles: a sub with a chain of living-pods bobbing behind it, houseboats piled high with the floaters’ possessions, and plenty of multilevel barges. The odd part was that people were sitting atop the glass-domed living-pods and flopped on the jerry-rigged barges as if staking out claims, all vying for the best view of the oil rig. Clearly settling in for a chunk of time, which I didn’t understand since it had to be 110 degrees out.
    From behind us came the rolling whip of an unfurling sail. I turned to see men on a trimaran tie off the center sail so that it faced the crowd. Then the crew dropped not one but three anchors—serious overkill for such a lightweight racer. They must’ve really wanted the boat to hold its position.
    “They’re going to broadcast the match,” Gemma guessed, pointing at the sail where a glowing square appeared, projected from the trimaran’s deck. Applause erupted from the crowd lounging on the docked boats. “I hope that doesn’t mean there’s no more room on the town.”
    I didn’t know what it meant because I’d never seen anything like it. But now that we were onshore I spotted the airship again, pulling at its mooring line at the top of old drilling tower. A banner hung from its passenger compartment, advertising the boxing match.
    Ahead of me, Gemma mounted the stairs cut into the cliff, maneuvering past the often ripe-smelling people sprawled on the steps. More floaters, I guessed, going by their faded plain tunics and loose-fitting pants. A few glanced up as I passed and did double takes upon spotting my shine. But considering how many people were packed onto the steps, I was getting off easy. The bandana and hat