Free Dark Life: Rip Tide by Kat Falls Page A

were working.
    At the top of the cliff, we joined the long line of people waiting to board the cable car. They were mostly Topsiders from the stack-cities wearing windblown layers of gauze. Had I thought Gemma’s sari was fancy? Clearly I hadn’t grasped the heights to which fancy could soar. Every item on their bodies was embroidered with silver and gold or decorated with doodads such as tassels, crystals, mirrors, and metal studs. All the sparkling and glinting reminded me of the light shows put on by deep-sea creatures, though those were far more beautiful.
    I met Gemma’s gaze and saw how the turquoise fabric draped over her shoulder, unadorned, turned her blue eyes into tide pools.
    “You look nice.”
    The words were out before I’d thought them through. I tensed. “Nice” was bland. I should have come up with something better. But then the smile she gave me in return was so dazzling that I couldn’t remember why I hadn’t told her she looked nice back at the docking-ring.
    As another group of people packed into the cable car, I recognized Benton Tupper at the front of the line. I pointed him out to Gemma. “He’s Benthic Territory’s representative,” I said, noting that he was not wearing his official blue Assembly robes but some sort of striped muumuu, which made him look like a market stall. “He should be too busy for boxing matches—busy getting us statehood. Or at least a vote in the Assembly.”
    Gemma was less interested in Tupper than the cable car itself. On our side of the barrier rope, a guy with a padlocked box sold tickets. On the other, a man with an iron hook at the end of a pole had snagged the cable car by its doorframe and was now struggling to hold it steady.
    “Do you think inspectors come out regularly to test this setup?” She eyed the open cable car warily. “Because it looks like it was built by a monkey with heatstroke.”
    “Oh, chum,” I muttered—not because of the unsafe cable car. Now that we’d made it to the front of the line, I recognized the burly, snub-nosed man selling tickets. Ratter—still in his purple frock coat and goggles with the lenses flipped up. The man who’d offended CaptainRevas with his chewing-weed. I hadn’t forgotten his reaction when I’d announced that Nomad was my salvage: He’d glared at me with bloodshot eyes. But in case I needed reminding, he gave me a repeat performance now with extra malice—enough to make my skin crawl.

CHAPTER
NINE
    With his beady eyes fixed on me, Ratter spat out a hunk of chewing-weed, leaving a line of green spittle down his unshaven chin. “You’re that pioneer kid that thinks he’s got a claim to Nomad.”
    “Good to see you, too.” I held up the tickets. No way was I going to let him intimidate me. Nor would I take the time to set him straight about salvage rights.
    Ignoring the tickets, he looked me over. “What’s wrong with you?”
    “What?”
    “Your skin don’t look right,” he pronounced. “We don’t let sick folk on Rip Tide. Mayor Fife’s orders.” With that, he pulled a hunk of dried seaweed from a pocket of his frock coat.
    “He’s fine.” Gemma snatched the tickets from my hand and shoved them at Ratter. “Healthier than you by a long shot.”
    After picking off the lint, Ratter popped the weed into his mouth and chewed like he was thinking hard. Finallyhe said, “No minors allowed without an adult.” He must have really taxed his brain to come up with that one.
    “We’re with two adults,” Gemma countered. She hooked her thumb at the two men behind us in line. Bare chested and streaked with orange zinc-paste from their faces on down, they could only be fishermen off the same boat. “We’re even taking them to lunch before the match.”
    It sounded like a fair trade to me, but one of the fishermen said, “Don’t know ’em from a codfish.”
    “What’s the holdup, Ratter?” yelled the guy with the gaff hook as he slipped a few feet toward the edge of the cliff.