The Fog Diver by Joel Ross Page A

the slum, I felt myself smile. The junkyard was horrible, but it was still home.
    â€œSight for sore eyes?” Hazel asked.
    â€œSight for sore everything, ” I told her, rubbing my bruises.
    She chewed her lower lip. “Do you think this whole thing is a mistake? I mean, trying to sneak onto Port Oro? Nobody ever makes it that far.”
    â€œNah,” I said. “Port Oro’s going to be great. I hear apples grow on trees.”
    â€œAnd it rains water !” she said.
    I laughed. “I’m just glad we made it back.”
    â€œWe haven’t yet,” Swedish grumbled from the wheel. “We’re going to crash and burn.”
    â€œSwede’s right,” Bea called from beside the condenser, a smudge of grease across her nose. “We’re not going toreach our dock, not even close.”
    â€œHow about the nearest slipway?” Hazel asked. “Can we reach that?”
    Slipways were makeshift ramps with mooring masts and space for undercarriage engines. Not as safe as our dock, and farther from home, but better than dying.
    â€œShe might hold together that long.” Bea nibbled her lower lip. “Barely.”
    â€œHow barely?” Hazel asked.
    â€œ Barely barely,” Bea said. “With only two balloons, she’s flying on dreams and dandelions.”
    Hazel set a course, and Swedish threaded the wallowing raft through high crests of Fog, toward the outer edge of the junkyard, a fringe of welded scaffolding, rusty chains, and plastic bags woven into sheets.
    â€œSpeaking of dreams,” I said, patting my boot pocket.
    Hazel glanced at me, a curious glint in her eyes. “Yeah, what were you doing picking a fight over a flower?”
    â€œNot that it wasn’t a very nice flower,” Bea called from under the raft.
    â€œProbably poisonous,” Swedish muttered, angling the raft toward the slipway.
    A clank sounded from below. “It was not!”
    â€œWould you two hush?” Hazel said. “Chess is trying to tell us something.”
    â€œProbably that it’s dangerous to talk to muties about smuggling stuff onto the Rooftop,” Swedish grumbled,adjusting the rudder to catch a breeze. “If the troopers capture them—”
    â€œI found a diamond,” I broke in.
    Silence fell, and I laughed at the hope and disbelief flickering on their faces.
    Bea popped from the hatch and everyone spoke at once:
    â€œA what ?” Hazel asked with a shocked laugh. “Are you sure?”
    â€œA diamond?” Swedish said. “Probably fake. Probably cursed .”
    â€œOooh,” Bea said. “Can I see? Is it pretty?”
    â€œChess, if you found a real diamond—”
    â€œMrs. E says they sparkle like the stars.”
    â€œYou know what they do with diamonds?” Swedish demanded. “Why nobody’s allowed to own one?”
    â€œWhat do they do?” I asked, widening my eyes in fake fascination.
    â€œ They are collecting diamonds to build a bomb—a mountain buster big enough to blow the whole Rooftop into gravel.”
    â€œRight,” I scoffed. “Because that’s what the roof-troopers want more than anything. Gravel.”
    â€œA diamond!” Hazel crowed. “You know what this means? We’re halfway to Port Oro already.”
    â€œLet’s see!” Bea said. “I want to see it! A real diam—”
    The raft gave a violent shudder, and the engine coughed and spat.
    â€œWe’re not home yet!” Hazel yelled. “Bea, keep her in the air. Chess, take the crow’s nest.”
    As I climbed the rigging, she shouted, “And don’t drop that rock!”
    Hazel leaned over the prow of the raft like a figurehead, ready to call a warning if an outcropping of Fog threatened the engine. As we flew closer, the stink of the junkyard rose in the air and mixed with the sharp tang of the overheated engine.
    A crowd watched us wheeze toward