He stooped to retrieve the band and inspected it again. Ryder would’ve let him up. Was just messing with him. Damn, he should’ve just waited it out. But the boots—he remembered how solid the sand had felt the night before, clenched around Rob’s legs. Scanning the training dunes, he looked toward the school. He still needed to get jerky, but another quick errand first. His trip that evening just got more interesting. He needed to show a friend these boots.
Around the corner from the school stood a line of shops that catered to scavengers. Used suits, visors, repair stalls, fins, electronics, all the scraps and tools of the trade. This was an industry honed by abrasive necessity. Practically all of Springston, Shantytown, Low-Pub, Pike, and the gardens to the west were built with dredged spoils from beneath the sands. The mounds of dirt that rose up and were in shallow enough sand to reclaim had been discovered by divers. The same divers who went on to do the digging. Water, gas, and oil pumps relied on divers. It was the industry on which all others were founded, which is why the death toll hardly dented the number of enthusiastic volunteers and why most of the kids who dreamed of entering dive school found packs of others standing before them. It was why many never got the chance.
Conner hurried through the bustling Saturday markets in the dive district and down one of the side alleys that kept creeping along with the dunes. He let himself into Graham’s, one of the larger shops. An annoying collection of bells and chimes clattered and rang as the top of the door struck them. Inside, the walls were covered in artifacts. Mirrors and clocks, pumps and small motors, coils of wire and tubing and pipe, and bin after bin of bolts, washers, and nuts. Across the high ceiling hung the remains of dozens of bicycles. Conner had to duck under a few of these.
Most of the goods that studded the walls and hung from the rafters had been brought up by Graham himself. The rest had been bartered for with something else he’d discovered. Despite appearances and the occasional price tag, hardly any of it was for sale. Convincing Graham to part with a single washer could take weeks of pleading. Trade was the only coin that worked, and Graham always got the better end of the deal. He was a pain in the ass, but had been good friends with their father, which meant getting work done even without an official dive card from the Guild.
“Graham?” Conner let himself through the counter and peered into the workshop. Graham glanced up from his bench. He had a wire brush in one hand and what looked like part of a rifle in the other.
“Con.” He smiled. “Thought you were off camping this weekend.”
“Tonight. I’m getting some water and a few other things while Rob airs out the tent. Hey, I want you to take a look at something for me.”
Graham pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sure,” he said. “You scavenge up something good?”
“You know I’m not allowed to dive.”
“Sand in your hair says you do.”
Conner touched his hair, and sand rained down. He stared guiltily at the mess. “Sorry—”
“Forget it.” Graham shooed his apology like a fly. “Never gets all the way clean in here. So what’ve you got?”
“It’s this band here that Rob made.” Conner reached into his pocket and pulled out the band. He handed it to Graham. “The wires are ripped loose—”
Graham gave the band a cursory glance. He leaned over his workbench and studied the wires trailing over Conner’s belt, then looked down at his feet.
“Dad’s boots,” Conner explained.
“I see that. You got a suit on under there?”
“No, that’s the thing. You know how Rob is, well, I caught him trying to dive with these last night. Wasn’t doing too bad a job of it—”
“Diving runs in your family,” Graham said. “Guild made a mistake not taking you in.”
“Yeah, well, it’s just these boots, see? No suit. But I felt what they could do to the sand and I wondered if you’d seen anything like this before.”
“You felt it,” Graham said. “So how far down did you go?”
Conner glanced over his shoulder, made sure they were alone. “A meter. Maybe two.”
Graham sniffed. He flipped the band inside out and adjusted the long-armed and multi-jointed light affixed to his desk. “People have toyed with these before. You can have some fun with a pair of boots. Skate along the sand, dip your toes and what-not. But they’re no good for diving. If you can’t keep the pressure off your chest, you can’t breathe. And even if you could, you’d be in a world of hurt when you came back up. Did Rob do the wiring?”
“Yeah.”
Graham looked up from his study of the band. “He’s better than you.”
“Yeah, I know.” Graham didn’t mean it with malice. He didn’t have a cruel bone in his body. But the power of dry observation sometimes felt the same. He made space on his workbench, setting that long steel barrel aside. He plugged in his soldering iron.
“Can I see the boots?”
“Sure.” Conner pulled the wires out at his knees and kicked off his dad’s boots. “He put the power charge in the left sole.”