Interlude II
The city of San Diego emerged from the morning haze like a mirage. A cluster of glass-fronted towers rose behind the concrete arc of a flood wall. Before the city, a spit of land struck out from the shore, bristling with cranes, and fortified with walls of shipping containers like colourful toy blocks. A sickly green glow coloured the cloud banks on the eastern horizon, an indicator of the great glittering field of Tiberium that was the North American Red Zone.
Peter clenched his jaw tight and willed himself to stay strong. His parents and Manny were just across that stretch of water, unaware of his presence. Part of him wanted to dive into the sea, and swim for home. Just as he was contemplating a desperate dash through the frigid, slate-grey water, a racking cough seized his chest, and he doubled over, grabbing onto the rusted gunwale for support. Sharp flakes of rust came away in his palm.
"You should be below decks," a measured voice advised.
Peter wiped a glob of phlegm from his chin before turning to face Kingsley. The tall black man's face was impassive as ever, but Peter thought there might be a hint of concern in his strong features. Or am I just seeing what I want to see?
"I'll be fine for a few minutes," Peter reassured him. "I just wanted to see… the city."
Kingsley frowned. "There is nothing to see; just another den of iniquity, a fortress of the Infidels."
Peter turned back to face the sea. No matter how much he had come to respect Kingsley, even appreciate his company, he was still a fanatic. It would do to remember that.
"Is there somewhere nearby we can put ashore?" Peter asked with his gaze locked firmly on the skyline. He didn't want Kingsley to catch a glimpse of a treacherous expression.
Since the mutiny of the prisoners, there was no official captain of the ship, but nonetheless Kingsley had fallen into a position of unofficial authority. The other escapees deferred to him, especially in matters of their commandeered ship's course.
The Prelate joined Peter at the railing, and let out a long sigh. He turned to Peter, and fixed him with a searching look. It was the first time Peter had seen something like indecision on that weathered, noble face.
"We can't stop here. The whole coast belongs to GDI. Do you see those?" Kingsley pointed to a handful of black spurs atop the discoloured sea wall. Peter squinted, but wasn't able to discern any detail.
"Those are railgun turrets. One shot would put a hole through both sides of the ship. We would sink, miles from land, and would drown. Any survivors who washed ashore would be shot as spies."
"These people are desperate!" he gestured to the decks below. "They need help. I can't believe GDI would ever be that brutal."
"To those within the walls, those outside are not people; we are a threat."
But this is my home, Peter didn't say.
"It's much safer to make for Panama," Kingsley continued, tapping his hand on the railing as he did so. "There are sects that hold the canal. We can cross there, and make a passage to somewhere more welcoming."
Peter nodded and listened, taking in none of it. Long after Kingsley left to go below decks, he stayed, watching as San Diego was consumed by the mist.
