The Fog Diver Read Online Free Page A

us, “can we get back to looking for the buoy?”
    I laughed and bounced slightly on the plank. Maybe today we’d finally catch a break. Those roses were a great sign. I started scanning the Fog for the buoy again, and—
    A deafening POP! shattered the calm morning. It came from beneath the deck, from the engine where Bea was working, adjusting a faulty propeller.
    My blood froze. “Bea?” I called. “Are you okay?”
    No answer.
    â€œChess, go !” Hazel shouted. “Swedish, cut the engines!”
    I dove from the plank, caught a cable with one hand and swung under the deck as a bubble of fear expanded in my chest. What if something had happened to Bea?

5
    I SCRAMBLED PAST THE side rudder and the vents, and spotted Bea beside an exhaust pipe.
    â€œBea!” I said, slumping in relief. “What happened?”
    She didn’t answer, her usually pale face so dark with soot that she looked like she was wearing a mask. She tapped a bolt with her wrench and told the engine, “Not funny.”
    She talked to the machinery, the rotors, cables, and gears. That wasn’t so weird, except she was sure that they talked back . Of course I couldn’t argue with the results. No other gearslinger could’ve kept this scruffy raft in the air.
    When I tapped her shoulder, she jerked in surprise.
    â€œChess!” she shouted, even though I was only a foot away. “What are you doing down here?”
    â€œWe heard a huge pop and—”
    â€œWhat?” she shouted. “I can’t hear you! There was this huge pop!”
    I eyed her. “Are you okay?!”
    She eyed me back. “Are you okay?”
    â€œHoo boy,” I muttered. “I’m fine!” I shouted. “Are. You. Okay?”
    She gave me a thumbs-up. “No problem! The hydraulic valve’s just mad because I didn’t adjust him yesterday!”
    â€œRight,” I said.
    â€œValves are moody,” she explained.
    I shot her a dubious look, and she grinned back. She knew we all thought she was whackadoo, but she didn’t care.
    I tapped her leather cap twice, saying good-bye, then climbed back onto the deck.
    â€œShe’s fine,” I told Hazel. “Just bickering with the spark plugs.”
    Hazel rubbed her face. “Do other captains have these problems?”
    â€œOther captains have airships,” Swedish told her. “You have a floating rattrap.”
    â€œThat’s what I have for now, ” she said.
    Swedish and I shared a bemused look at Hazel and her big dreams.
    â€œBut I can’t find the buoy,” she continued. “Chess, help me look.”
    I shoved my goggles to the top of my head, started to brush my hair away from my freak-eye, then hesitated. Like I was afraid that someone might burst out of the clouds and spot the white wisps drifting across my right eye.
    This was the fear that never left me. The clouds of nanites in my eye helped me see farther, hear more, and move faster in the Fog than anyone else, but they also marked me as a freak. As Kodoc’s freak. He wasn’t just my enemy, he was also my creator . Millions of tiny machines swarmed through my brain because of him. Cobblers made shoes and weavers made cloth and Kodoc made me. Like I was nothing more than a tool he’d crafted to help him find those ancient fog-machines—so he could kill his enemies in the silent rise of white.
    I’d felt his power every day of my life, before I’d even heard his name. Not just because of the big things, like not having a mother. Kodoc was also the reason I’d worn an eye patch as a little kid. My dad was the one who’d given it to me. He knew I had to hide my eye, but he’d hated how ashamed I felt. So after he died, I vowed that I’d never wear a patch again. And I hadn’t: I’d just kept my hair long, my head down, and my mouth shut.
    Of course the crew didn’t care about my freak-eye,