The Ramp to the Leviathan’s Bane
Kaelen’s lungs burned with every pedal stroke. The air here tasted like rust and battery acid, a chemical cocktail that coated his throat and made his eyes water behind the scratched goggles. He was gaining on Jax, but the gap wasn’t closing fast enough.
The finish line was fifteen miles ahead. Port Angeles rose from the haze like a fever dream—towers of glass and steel wrapped in scaffolding, the harbor choked with desalination barges, and beyond it all, the toxic gyre churning against the sea wall. The city was a wound that wouldn’t heal, and OCC was offering a bandage made of thorns.
Kaelen’s display flickered. The Resonator’s signature had shifted—from 12 Hz to 18 Hz. The water beneath his hydrofoil began to vibrate, a low hum that traveled up through the frame and into his bones. He knew that frequency. It was the same one that had pulled Suki under during Stage 2.
Jax was accelerating. His bike left a wake that looked wrong—too sharp, too clean, like a knife cutting through butter. The other racers were scattered behind him, their machines struggling against the artificial current. Some had already stopped, their hydrofoils dragging as the Resonator’s pulse scrambled their stabilizers.
Kaelen checked his rear display. The Drifters’ support boat was a speck on the horizon, too far to help. Lena was on that boat, probably watching through binoculars, her knuckles white against the railing. He’d promised her he’d finish. He’d promised her he’d survive.
But promises had a way of breaking when the current turned.
He pushed harder. The titanium hip screamed, a grinding ache that radiated down his leg and up his spine. The painkillers Lena had given him were wearing off, leaving behind a raw, bone-deep throb that made his vision blur at the edges. He blinked hard, forced the world back into focus.
The *Leviathan’s Bane* was anchored three miles off the coast, a black hulk against the gray sky. Its deck bristled with antennae and dishes, and at its center, the Resonator’s emitter array glowed a sickly blue. The ship was the heart of OCC’s operation, the source of every unnatural wave and whirlpool that had plagued the race.
Kaelen had known, from the moment Lena told him the truth, that he would have to reach that ship. He’d planned for it, trained for it, bled for it. But planning and doing were two different things, and the gap between them was filled with the taste of copper and the sound of his own ragged breath.
Jax glanced back. Even from a quarter mile away, Kaelen could see the smirk on his face. The champion was untouchable, riding a wave of stolen energy, his bike humming with the Resonator’s power. He raised one hand in a mock salute, then turned back to the finish line.
Kaelen’s jaw tightened. He looked at his display again. The bike’s battery was at 23%. The hydrofoil’s left stabilizer was cracked from the chemical plant shortcut. The frame was vibrating at a frequency that didn’t match the Resonator’s—a sign that something was about to fail.
He had maybe ten miles before the bike gave out. Maybe less.
The *Leviathan’s Bane* loomed closer. He could see the guards on its deck now, dark figures against the blue glow of the emitter array. They were watching the race, tracking the racers’ positions, waiting for the moment when Jax crossed the finish line and OCC could claim its victory.
Kaelen made a choice.
It wasn’t a dramatic decision, not the kind of thing that came with a flash of insight or a surge of adrenaline. It was quiet, almost mundane, like choosing which wrench to use on a stubborn bolt. He knew what he had to do. He’d known since the moment he saw the Resonator’s signature on his display during Stage 2.
He veered off the course.
The bike’s hydrofoil caught the edge of the race lane, skipped once, then settled into the open water. The other racers were a blur to his left, their machines shrinking as he angled toward the *Leviathan’s Bane*. The ship was a mile away now, its hull rising from the water like a cliff face.
His display flashed a warning: *OFF COURSE. PENALTY: DISQUALIFICATION.*
Kaelen ignored it.
The water here was different. The Resonator’s pulse was stronger, a deep thrum that vibrated through the hydrofoil and made his teeth ache. The surface was choppy, cross-currents pulling at the bike from every direction. He had to fight to keep the machine upright, his arms trembling with the effort.
The *Leviathan’s Bane* grew larger. He could see the loading ramp now, a metal tongue extending from the ship’s stern, just above the waterline. It was meant for supply boats, not racing bikes, but it was the only way aboard.
He aimed for it.
The bike’s left stabilizer gave out with a crack that he felt more than heard. The hydrofoil dipped, the frame shuddering as the damaged blade scraped against the water. Kaelen cursed, shifted his weight, and felt the titanium hip grind against the socket. The pain was a white-hot spike that drove the breath from his lungs.
He kept pedaling.
The ramp was fifty yards away. Forty. Thirty. The guards on the deck had noticed him now. One of them raised a rifle, the barrel tracking his movement. Kaelen didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. If he stopped, he was dead. If he kept going, he might be dead too, but at least he’d have a chance.
Twenty yards.
The guard fired. The shot went wide, kicking up a plume of water to Kaelen’s right. He didn’t flinch. His eyes were fixed on the ramp, on the metal grating that was his only way onto the ship.
Ten yards.
The bike’s hydrofoil caught the edge of the ramp. The impact jarred through Kaelen’s body, rattling his teeth and sending a fresh wave of pain through his hip. He held on, his fingers white-knuckled on the handlebars, as the bike skidded up the metal incline.
The ramp was steep. The bike’s wheels—small, solid tires meant for emergency use only—scrabbled for traction on the wet metal. Kaelen stood on the pedals, pumping with everything he had, his lungs screaming for air that tasted like poison.
The guards were running toward him. He could hear their boots on the deck, the clatter of their gear, the shouted orders in a language he didn’t understand. He didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the top of the ramp, on the edge where the metal met the ship’s main deck.
He reached it.
The bike lurched onto the deck, its wheels spinning on the smooth surface. Kaelen released the handlebars, let the machine fall, and rolled off before it could pin him. He hit the deck hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs, and came up with his hand already reaching for the bike’s battery pack.
The guards were twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.
Kaelen yanked the battery pack free. It was heavy, a solid block of lithium-ion cells wrapped in a carbon-fiber casing. He’d modified it himself, with Tinker’s help, wiring a manual override that would dump the entire charge in a single burst.
He pressed the override button.
The battery pack screamed. A high-pitched whine that built to a deafening roar, then cut off as the energy discharged in a wave of electromagnetic radiation. The ship’s lights flickered. The guards’ rifles sparked, their electronics fried. The Resonator’s emitter array flickered, the blue glow stuttering before it went dark.
Kaelen dropped the dead battery pack. His hands were shaking. His hip was on fire. His lungs felt like they were filled with glass.
But he was on the ship.
He was on the *Leviathan’s Bane*.
The guards were down, their weapons useless, their radios dead. They’d recover, but not for a few minutes. Long enough for Kaelen to find the Resonator’s emitter array and do what he came to do.
He limped across the deck, his boots leaving bloody prints on the metal. The titanium hip was grinding against the socket with every step, a dull, rhythmic ache that he forced himself to ignore. He’d felt worse. He’d survived worse.
The emitter array was at the center of the ship, a dome of metal and glass that pulsed with residual energy. The EMP had disabled it, but only temporarily. The Resonator’s backup systems would kick in soon, and the device would be operational again.
Kaelen didn’t have much time.
He found a maintenance hatch on the side of the dome, its bolts rusted and worn. He pulled a wrench from his pocket—the same wrench he’d used to sabotage Jax’s bike during Stage 4—and began to work. The bolts were stubborn, but he was stubborn too. He’d spent years in bike shops, years learning how to take things apart and put them back together.
The hatch came loose. He pulled it open, revealing the Resonator’s internal mechanisms: a maze of wires, circuit boards, and gyroscopic stabilizers. The heart of the machine was a spinning sphere, its surface etched with patterns that looked like ocean currents.
Kaelen knew what he had to do. Aris had told him, in the brief moments before Mercer’s men had killed him. The stabilizers were the key. If he jammed them, the Resonator would overheat, its gyroscopic balance thrown off by the friction.
He reached into the hatch, the wrench in his hand. The stabilizers were spinning, their surfaces slick with lubricant. He aimed for the gap between them, the space where the gyroscopes met the housing.
He jammed the wrench in.
The sound was like a scream. Metal grinding against metal, a high-pitched shriek that built to a deafening roar. The stabilizers shuddered, their spin faltering as the wrench caught and held. The sphere inside the dome began to wobble, its surface glowing brighter as the energy built.
Kaelen pulled his hand back, felt the heat radiating from the hatch. The Resonator was overheating. The backup systems were failing. The ship’s alarms began to blare, a deafening wail that drowned out everything else.
He turned and ran.
The deck was chaos. Crew members were scrambling for lifeboats, their faces pale in the flickering light of the emergency beacons. The guards were still down, their bodies sprawled across the metal. The *Leviathan’s Bane* was dying, its heart torn out by a mechanic with a wrench and a broken bike.
Kaelen reached the ramp. He slid down it, his boots skidding on the wet metal, and hit the water with a splash that knocked the breath from his lungs. The water was cold, toxic, burning against his skin. He kicked, fought, dragged himself toward the surface.
He broke through, gasping, and looked back.
The *Leviathan’s Bane* was a pyre. The Resonator’s dome had split open, blue light pouring from the crack like blood from a wound. The ship was listing, its hull groaning as the sea rushed in. The crew was abandoning it, their lifeboats dotting the water like scattered seeds.
Kaelen floated on his back, his arms spread wide, and watched it burn.
The toxic gyre was dissipating. The shockwave from the Resonator’s meltdown had pushed it back, scattering the chemical sludge across the open ocean. Port Angeles was safe. The city would live to see another day.
Kaelen closed his eyes. The water was cold, but he didn’t feel it. The pain in his hip was a distant throb, a memory of something that had happened to someone else.
He heard the sound of a boat engine, growing closer. He opened his eyes and saw the Drifters’ support boat cutting through the water, Lena standing at the bow, her hair whipping in the wind.
She was shouting something, but he couldn’t hear her over the roar of the flames.
He smiled, and let his head fall back into the water.
He was done.
The finish line was fifteen miles ahead. Port Angeles rose from the haze like a fever dream—towers of glass and steel wrapped in scaffolding, the harbor choked with desalination barges, and beyond it all, the toxic gyre churning against the sea wall. The city was a wound that wouldn’t heal, and OCC was offering a bandage made of thorns.
Kaelen’s display flickered. The Resonator’s signature had shifted—from 12 Hz to 18 Hz. The water beneath his hydrofoil began to vibrate, a low hum that traveled up through the frame and into his bones. He knew that frequency. It was the same one that had pulled Suki under during Stage 2.
Jax was accelerating. His bike left a wake that looked wrong—too sharp, too clean, like a knife cutting through butter. The other racers were scattered behind him, their machines struggling against the artificial current. Some had already stopped, their hydrofoils dragging as the Resonator’s pulse scrambled their stabilizers.
Kaelen checked his rear display. The Drifters’ support boat was a speck on the horizon, too far to help. Lena was on that boat, probably watching through binoculars, her knuckles white against the railing. He’d promised her he’d finish. He’d promised her he’d survive.
But promises had a way of breaking when the current turned.
He pushed harder. The titanium hip screamed, a grinding ache that radiated down his leg and up his spine. The painkillers Lena had given him were wearing off, leaving behind a raw, bone-deep throb that made his vision blur at the edges. He blinked hard, forced the world back into focus.
The *Leviathan’s Bane* was anchored three miles off the coast, a black hulk against the gray sky. Its deck bristled with antennae and dishes, and at its center, the Resonator’s emitter array glowed a sickly blue. The ship was the heart of OCC’s operation, the source of every unnatural wave and whirlpool that had plagued the race.
Kaelen had known, from the moment Lena told him the truth, that he would have to reach that ship. He’d planned for it, trained for it, bled for it. But planning and doing were two different things, and the gap between them was filled with the taste of copper and the sound of his own ragged breath.
Jax glanced back. Even from a quarter mile away, Kaelen could see the smirk on his face. The champion was untouchable, riding a wave of stolen energy, his bike humming with the Resonator’s power. He raised one hand in a mock salute, then turned back to the finish line.
Kaelen’s jaw tightened. He looked at his display again. The bike’s battery was at 23%. The hydrofoil’s left stabilizer was cracked from the chemical plant shortcut. The frame was vibrating at a frequency that didn’t match the Resonator’s—a sign that something was about to fail.
He had maybe ten miles before the bike gave out. Maybe less.
The *Leviathan’s Bane* loomed closer. He could see the guards on its deck now, dark figures against the blue glow of the emitter array. They were watching the race, tracking the racers’ positions, waiting for the moment when Jax crossed the finish line and OCC could claim its victory.
Kaelen made a choice.
It wasn’t a dramatic decision, not the kind of thing that came with a flash of insight or a surge of adrenaline. It was quiet, almost mundane, like choosing which wrench to use on a stubborn bolt. He knew what he had to do. He’d known since the moment he saw the Resonator’s signature on his display during Stage 2.
He veered off the course.
The bike’s hydrofoil caught the edge of the race lane, skipped once, then settled into the open water. The other racers were a blur to his left, their machines shrinking as he angled toward the *Leviathan’s Bane*. The ship was a mile away now, its hull rising from the water like a cliff face.
His display flashed a warning: *OFF COURSE. PENALTY: DISQUALIFICATION.*
Kaelen ignored it.
The water here was different. The Resonator’s pulse was stronger, a deep thrum that vibrated through the hydrofoil and made his teeth ache. The surface was choppy, cross-currents pulling at the bike from every direction. He had to fight to keep the machine upright, his arms trembling with the effort.
The *Leviathan’s Bane* grew larger. He could see the loading ramp now, a metal tongue extending from the ship’s stern, just above the waterline. It was meant for supply boats, not racing bikes, but it was the only way aboard.
He aimed for it.
The bike’s left stabilizer gave out with a crack that he felt more than heard. The hydrofoil dipped, the frame shuddering as the damaged blade scraped against the water. Kaelen cursed, shifted his weight, and felt the titanium hip grind against the socket. The pain was a white-hot spike that drove the breath from his lungs.
He kept pedaling.
The ramp was fifty yards away. Forty. Thirty. The guards on the deck had noticed him now. One of them raised a rifle, the barrel tracking his movement. Kaelen didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. If he stopped, he was dead. If he kept going, he might be dead too, but at least he’d have a chance.
Twenty yards.
The guard fired. The shot went wide, kicking up a plume of water to Kaelen’s right. He didn’t flinch. His eyes were fixed on the ramp, on the metal grating that was his only way onto the ship.
Ten yards.
The bike’s hydrofoil caught the edge of the ramp. The impact jarred through Kaelen’s body, rattling his teeth and sending a fresh wave of pain through his hip. He held on, his fingers white-knuckled on the handlebars, as the bike skidded up the metal incline.
The ramp was steep. The bike’s wheels—small, solid tires meant for emergency use only—scrabbled for traction on the wet metal. Kaelen stood on the pedals, pumping with everything he had, his lungs screaming for air that tasted like poison.
The guards were running toward him. He could hear their boots on the deck, the clatter of their gear, the shouted orders in a language he didn’t understand. He didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the top of the ramp, on the edge where the metal met the ship’s main deck.
He reached it.
The bike lurched onto the deck, its wheels spinning on the smooth surface. Kaelen released the handlebars, let the machine fall, and rolled off before it could pin him. He hit the deck hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs, and came up with his hand already reaching for the bike’s battery pack.
The guards were twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.
Kaelen yanked the battery pack free. It was heavy, a solid block of lithium-ion cells wrapped in a carbon-fiber casing. He’d modified it himself, with Tinker’s help, wiring a manual override that would dump the entire charge in a single burst.
He pressed the override button.
The battery pack screamed. A high-pitched whine that built to a deafening roar, then cut off as the energy discharged in a wave of electromagnetic radiation. The ship’s lights flickered. The guards’ rifles sparked, their electronics fried. The Resonator’s emitter array flickered, the blue glow stuttering before it went dark.
Kaelen dropped the dead battery pack. His hands were shaking. His hip was on fire. His lungs felt like they were filled with glass.
But he was on the ship.
He was on the *Leviathan’s Bane*.
The guards were down, their weapons useless, their radios dead. They’d recover, but not for a few minutes. Long enough for Kaelen to find the Resonator’s emitter array and do what he came to do.
He limped across the deck, his boots leaving bloody prints on the metal. The titanium hip was grinding against the socket with every step, a dull, rhythmic ache that he forced himself to ignore. He’d felt worse. He’d survived worse.
The emitter array was at the center of the ship, a dome of metal and glass that pulsed with residual energy. The EMP had disabled it, but only temporarily. The Resonator’s backup systems would kick in soon, and the device would be operational again.
Kaelen didn’t have much time.
He found a maintenance hatch on the side of the dome, its bolts rusted and worn. He pulled a wrench from his pocket—the same wrench he’d used to sabotage Jax’s bike during Stage 4—and began to work. The bolts were stubborn, but he was stubborn too. He’d spent years in bike shops, years learning how to take things apart and put them back together.
The hatch came loose. He pulled it open, revealing the Resonator’s internal mechanisms: a maze of wires, circuit boards, and gyroscopic stabilizers. The heart of the machine was a spinning sphere, its surface etched with patterns that looked like ocean currents.
Kaelen knew what he had to do. Aris had told him, in the brief moments before Mercer’s men had killed him. The stabilizers were the key. If he jammed them, the Resonator would overheat, its gyroscopic balance thrown off by the friction.
He reached into the hatch, the wrench in his hand. The stabilizers were spinning, their surfaces slick with lubricant. He aimed for the gap between them, the space where the gyroscopes met the housing.
He jammed the wrench in.
The sound was like a scream. Metal grinding against metal, a high-pitched shriek that built to a deafening roar. The stabilizers shuddered, their spin faltering as the wrench caught and held. The sphere inside the dome began to wobble, its surface glowing brighter as the energy built.
Kaelen pulled his hand back, felt the heat radiating from the hatch. The Resonator was overheating. The backup systems were failing. The ship’s alarms began to blare, a deafening wail that drowned out everything else.
He turned and ran.
The deck was chaos. Crew members were scrambling for lifeboats, their faces pale in the flickering light of the emergency beacons. The guards were still down, their bodies sprawled across the metal. The *Leviathan’s Bane* was dying, its heart torn out by a mechanic with a wrench and a broken bike.
Kaelen reached the ramp. He slid down it, his boots skidding on the wet metal, and hit the water with a splash that knocked the breath from his lungs. The water was cold, toxic, burning against his skin. He kicked, fought, dragged himself toward the surface.
He broke through, gasping, and looked back.
The *Leviathan’s Bane* was a pyre. The Resonator’s dome had split open, blue light pouring from the crack like blood from a wound. The ship was listing, its hull groaning as the sea rushed in. The crew was abandoning it, their lifeboats dotting the water like scattered seeds.
Kaelen floated on his back, his arms spread wide, and watched it burn.
The toxic gyre was dissipating. The shockwave from the Resonator’s meltdown had pushed it back, scattering the chemical sludge across the open ocean. Port Angeles was safe. The city would live to see another day.
Kaelen closed his eyes. The water was cold, but he didn’t feel it. The pain in his hip was a distant throb, a memory of something that had happened to someone else.
He heard the sound of a boat engine, growing closer. He opened his eyes and saw the Drifters’ support boat cutting through the water, Lena standing at the bow, her hair whipping in the wind.
She was shouting something, but he couldn’t hear her over the roar of the flames.
He smiled, and let his head fall back into the water.
He was done.