'Ahoy over there, friends,' Osman shouted through the megaphone. 'Don't you remember me? I'd think a face this handsome would stick with you. Where's my Marisol? Last time I saw her she was out to here with a baby. Where's Kreutzer, that old asshole? There must be some of you that remember my old boat, the Arawelo. You all sailed on her, after all.'
He set down the megaphone and shrugged. 'If that doesn't convince them we're friends, they were destined to shoot us anyways,' he told Sarah. He took the wheel back from her and steered them into one of the ferry slips. The tug sat lower in the water than the ferries had by a considerable margin. Inside the slip they were penned in by high walls lined in shock-absorbing plastic. They couldn't see up onto the island at all. If anyone wanted to kill them it would be like shooting fish in a plastic tub.
When they bounced to a halt against the slip walls he ran forward and threw a line up onto the dock. Unseen hands took it, tied it off, made it secure. A ladder appeared over the edge and dipped down to smack the tug's deck. Osman went up first, unarmed. Sarah came after with her Makarov in her pocket, loaded and ready. When Osman left Governors Island the last time he had been a hero and the island's inhabitants had waved at him as he steamed out to sea. Now he was coming back almost anonymously and he might be attacked the second he was over the side. Anything could have happened in the interval. Anyone could have come along, slain the original survivors, and taken the island for themselves. It was that kind of world. It had been for twelve years.
At the top of the ladder five men with assault rifles waited for them. Only one man had his weapon ready and aimed at them, but that was more than enough. They were lead without a word into one of the buildings that fronted the shoreline, a low, modernist structure of concrete and glass, some of which had been boarded over. The honor guard lead them into a dim room lit only by the sunlight streaming in through high windows. A woman with a boy at her side stood at the far side of the room. She had a pistol in her hand. So did the boy, who might be twelve years old or eight'he was a scrawny little child and the lighting was terrible.
The woman stepped forward, into a patch of light. She was beautiful, astoundingly so, with just a hint of age in her face. Her caramel-colored skin was flawless and her hair, tied back in an explosive ponytail, glimmered in the half-light. She had a broad sash across a homespun black sweater. It read MAYOR, picked out in crystals and sequins.
She should have been a movie star. She had been, if Sarah remembered Marisol's story correctly. She'd already had some success in z-grade genre films, there had already been some buzz about her, whisperings of a career to come, of a lifestyle never to be matched again. There weren't any more movies, though, nor any Hollywood parties or private yachts or any Greek billionaires with ten carat diamond engagement rings. She'd had to settle.
'Osman,' she said, her face melting into joy as she recognized the pilot. 'Oh my God, it's you, Jesus fuck, it's really you. Wow, that's a whole lot of bad memories to have to relive at once.' She rushed forward to kiss him all over her face. 'Here, here, I want you to meet Jackie,' she said, and ushered her boy over with wild hand gestures. Happiness split the woman's face, made wrinkles appear in her brow and around her mouth. She was nearly jumping up and down. 'Jesus shit! How have you been? What are you doing these days? Who's your friend? Is this your daughter?' Marisol asked.
Osman laughed. 'No, no. This is Sarah. Dekalb's daughter.'
'Dekalb.' Marisol said. 'Dekalb's daughter.' Emotions erased themselves from her face.
Silence rushed into the room like a cold flood.
'Oh. Hi,' Marisol said.
Monster Planet
Chapter Three