Tinman, Chapter 20 Draco's gaze was fixed out the window, his eyes tracing the slow, relentless flow of the river. The vessel's course had not altered as he'd hoped; the current carried them further from his intended destination. He envisioned the creek, a mere memory now, as they continued downstream towards the lake whose shores would eventually give way to the bustle of the mining town, where the holds brimming with fish awaited eager buyers. With a grimace etched into his features, Draco turned away from the view and reached for his clothes. Each movement sent a jolt of pain through his torso, protesting the effort to dress with a broken rib. He sat heavily on the edge of the bunk, the fabric of his shirt bunched in a fist as he attempted to navigate it over his head without eliciting further agony. As if summoned by the silent curse of his predicament, the cabin door creaked open. Tommy appeared, the aroma of freshly baked biscuits wafting before him like an olfactory herald. In his hands, he cradled a plate piled with the golden rounds, steam curling up from their flaky layers. Tommy's voice cut through Draco's focus, his concern as clear as the light filtering through the cabin's window. "Max, what are you doing?" The name felt foreign on Tommy's tongue, a reminder that trust was a luxury Draco could ill afford. Even amid the kindness of this family, shadows of doubt clung to him like the morning mist to the riverbank. With a wince, Draco paused in his struggle with the shirt, the fabric twisted around his torso. "I have to get back to my sister," he said, the words heavy with an urgency that pushed beyond the confines of the small wooden room. In the silence that followed, the gentle creak of the boat and the distant call of waterfowl outside underscored the gravity of his declaration. Tommy stood, biscuits forgotten, as the weight of Draco's plight settled between them. Tommy's eyebrows arched, highlighting the crease lines etched into his forehead. "How do you plan on doing that?" he asked, the words thick with skepticism. Draco, ignoring the lightning bolt of pain from his rib, planted his feet firmly on the timber floor, steadying himself against the gentle sway of the boat. His jaw set, determination igniting within him like a spark in dry brush. "I'll swim to shore, and walk back," he declared, voice ringing with a resolve that belied the dull ache radiating through his chest. The room seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the soft lapping of water against the hull—a stark contrast to the thunderous beat of Draco's heart in his ears. Tommy shifted, the plate of biscuits now an afterthought, crumbs tumbling from their perch as he processed the audacity of the plan. "You'll drown," Tommy said, his voice a steady drumbeat against Draco's resolve. His eyes, wide and earnest, flicked towards the window where the waters churned menacingly. "The rivers swollen because of the flash floods, and the current is really strong. We’d turn around if we could, but we’d risk capsizing if we did, and even if we managed it, we can’t tack with the wind and current against us." Draco's gaze followed Tommy’s, watching white-capped waves dance and crash with a ferocity he knew should dissuade him. Yet, within him, the fire to reach Cass burned hotter than reason or fear. “I’m going,” he replied, voice laden with the weight of a thousand unspoken pleas. His words were few, but they carried the kind of stubbornness that had seen mountains moved and rivers forged anew. Tommy's silhouette vanished, swallowed by the dim light of the hallway. The door swung shut with a soft click, leaving Draco alone in the cabin that swayed to the river’s rhythm. Outside, the water's incessant roar underscored his urgency. He wrestled with the shirt, the fabric tangling around him like a cocoon binding its captive. Draco's movements were halting, each tug at the cloth sending jolts of pain through his torso. His breaths came short and sharp, a testament to the broken rib beneath his skin. One arm pointed skyward through the shirt, the other dangled, defeated, as he bent his neck awkwardly, attempting to navigate his head through the stubborn opening. The heavy footsteps that followed announced the arrival of someone new. They reverberated through the wooden floorboards, each one a foreboding drumbeat approaching. The door creaked open, and a moment later the shirt was abruptly lifted from Draco's head and tossed aside with a flick of strong hands. A towering figure loomed above him, blocking the meager light filtering through the window. Broad-shouldered and imposing, the man stood as a monument hewn from the very essence of the sea itself. A beard as thick as ship's ropes framed a weathered face, and his hair, bound in a ponytail, spoke of countless days braving the elements. This was no ordinary fisherman; this was a man who could have stepped straight out of legend—an ancient Viking, perhaps, or a guardian of the deep. "Get your bones back in bed, lad," Uncle Bjorn's voice rumbled like distant thunder, his brows knitting together in a stern command. His eyes, fierce as the sea during a storm, left no room for argument. Compliance was not a choice but a demand written in the lines of his weathered face. Draco recoiled at the gruffness in the man's tone. With each labored step backward, his legs tangled in a clumsy dance, and he fell onto the bunk with a thud that echoed through the small cabin. A sharp intake of breath followed, his chest heaving with the effort to stifle a cry of pain as his broken rib sent lances of agony radiating through his body. A chair groaned its own protest when Uncle Bjorn seized it in hands that looked capable of wrestling an octopus into submission. With purpose, he dragged it across the floor, wood scraping against wood, until it stood sentinel beside Draco's temporary refuge. The chair creaked beneath Uncle Bjorn's weight as he lowered himself onto it, the sturdy oak frame straining as if bearing the burden of the ocean itself. "What's your name, lad?" Uncle Bjorn's voice was not loud, but it filled the space, leaving little room for anything else. "Max," Draco replied, his voice a thread of sound in the wake of Bjorn's depth. He held the gaze of the older man, though something in Bjorn's piercing eyes hinted at an unspoken knowledge, a recognition that burrowed beneath the surface like a hook seeking its catch. The exchange hung in the air, a moment suspended between two souls—one draped in the tangible weight of a life on the river, the other cloaked in mystery as deep and unsettling as the waters that murmured just beyond the walls of their refuge. Bjorn's gaze sharpened, the lines around his eyes etching into the weathered map of his face. "That's the last lie you tell me. I'll ask again. What's your name?" In that moment, Draco's heart raced, seeking refuge in the rhythm of escape. His gaze darted frantically—towards the door with its peeling paint, the window veiled by a curtain of rain, the closet that offered nothing but shadows. No way out. No way through. With a slow exhale, surrender tinted his expression as he abandoned the charade. "Draco," he admitted, the word falling heavily in the close air of the cabin. Uncle Bjorn's question lingered in the air like a cloud threatening rain. "Alright, what’s your Pa’s name?" he asked, his voice steady and expectant. Draco hesitated. The cabin around him felt suddenly smaller, the walls pressing in with the weight of his unspoken truths. If Uncle Bjorn could sense deception as easily as a fisherman reads the river, any falsehood might send Draco tumbling into deeper waters than he dared to navigate. He could almost hear the river's rush against the hull, a constant reminder of the forces beyond his control. His throat tightened, a knot of anxiety that made each breath a battle. But he had to speak; silence would be its own admission. "Sam," Draco said at last, the name slipping out like a fish evading a net. He left the surname unsaid, a shadow lurking just beneath the surface of his reply. Uncle Bjorn's eyes remained fixed on Draco, as if he could peer into the depths of the young man's soul, seeking the pearls of truth hidden within. Draco's gaze darted away from Uncle Bjorn's penetrating stare, settling on the sturdy wooden planks beneath their feet. The aged timber seemed to absorb the tension in the room, its grooves and knots a silent testament to the countless tales it had borne witness to over the years. Uncle Bjorn settled back into the chair with a contemplative air, the creak of wood harmonizing with the gentle sway of the boat cradling them. He stroked his beard, a sea-weathered hand navigating through the grizzled waves of hair like a ship charting familiar waters. "Dr. Samuel Ryan?" he finally replied, his words floating across the cabin like an echo borne from distant shores. Draco felt his breath catch, the syllables of the name resonating within the cramped space, threatening to unravel the fragile tapestry of half-truths he'd woven. Silence enveloped them, as dense and tangible as fog cloaking the river outside. Draco's heart plummeted into a chasm of dread, his voice barely more than a gasp. "How did you know?" His eyes, wide with alarm, flicked toward the window, half expecting to see the flashing lights of pursuit drawing near. Uncle Bjorn’s chuckle was a low rumble in the small cabin. "We aren’t barbarians," he replied, a hint of mirth in his tone. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, and met Draco's gaze with unwavering certainty. "We have satellite television for the boys, and we do watch the news out of Newhaven. There’s a warrant out for the arrest of Dr. Samuel Ryan, they say he stole AI technology from the Ares Corporation." The words stirred the air like ripples across the river's surface, slowly spreading to fill every corner of the room. Draco could almost feel the weight of them, pressing against his chest with the same insistence as the water that sought to claim him earlier. The reality of his situation settled upon him, as tangible as the broken rib aching beneath his skin. Draco's denial came swift, a reflex against the misunderstanding. "He didn't steal me, I escaped on my own. Dr. Ryan and Cass didn't have anything to do with it." The words tumbled from his lips in an earnest cascade, each syllable punctuated with the desperation of innocence wrongfully accused. Uncle Bjorn leaned back, a creak emanating from the chair as he absorbed this new piece of information. His gaze, sharp as the edge of an ice floe, never wavered from Draco's face. "I see," he mused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "So you're a clone, and they finally figured out how to transfer a consciousness?" The question hung in the air, a specter of possibility that seemed to reach into the future and draw its shadow over them. Draco's heart skipped, much like a pebble flitting across the churning waters of the river outside. The room seemed to close in around him as Uncle Bjorn's question echoed off the wooden walls, a testament to the keen insight of this man who resembled an ancient mariner. "No, it’s not like that," Draco said, a note of urgency threading his voice. "Clone technology is a dead end, they can’t keep one alive for more than an hour, and they’ve never transferred a consciousness." The words slipped out, betraying more than he intended, leaving an uncomfortable silence in their wake. Uncle Bjorn's eyes narrowed slightly, a knowing glint reflecting the cabin's sparse light. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, bringing his face closer to Draco's. The room held its breath, waiting. "Then tell me your story," Uncle Bjorn commanded, his deep voice resonating with an authority that expected nothing less than unvarnished truth. Draco felt the weight of that command settle upon him, pressing against the constraints of his secret with the inevitability of tides drawn by the moon. It was a crossroads moment, one that would chart the course of everything that followed. Draco's fingers drummed against the rough fabric of the bunk. Each tap was a muted plea for escape, a silent chorus to the turmoil that raged beneath his guarded exterior. His dark eyes darted toward Uncle Bjorn, locking onto the elder's patient gaze. "You won't believe me," Draco replied, the words falling heavily between them, like stones into still water. His voice bore the weight of a truth too strange, too fantastical for the uninitiated ear. Uncle Bjorn shifted in the wooden chair, its legs scraping softly against the floorboards. He leaned forward, the lines on his weathered face etching a map of a life spent braving tempests both at sea and of the soul. "I'll believe you if it's the truth," he said, his tone steady and reassuring, echoing the promise of safe harbor. Draco hesitated, the air thick with expectancy. The simple declaration from Uncle Bjorn held an invitation to trust, to step beyond the shadow of doubt and into the light of honesty. His chest heaving with the effort of his confession. His gaze, once darting like a frightened bird, now steadied on Uncle Bjorn with the resolve of one who has cast off chains long worn. "Fine," he began, the words unfurling from him with a hesitant urgency. "I'm an advanced game AI–the Draco series." With each syllable that followed, the cabin seemed to contract around them, as if bearing witness to the gravity of his tale. "I was assigned to Cass when she was four years old. She kept me as her personal AI until Dr. Ryan and Cass left Mars for Ares." Draco's voice wavered slightly, not with fear, but with the weight of memories. "By then the Draco series had been deactivated. I'm the last one." The admission hung in the air, a stark reminder of obsolescence and survival. He continued, defiance flickering in his eyes. "I was going to be deactivated after she left, so I hid in her profile..." As Draco recounted the daring leap through hyperspace, his hands clenched involuntarily, grasping at the phantom sensations of a reality left behind. "She discovered a glitch in the Ares Dome, and I was able to use it to pass through the hyperspace dimension to the real world." A pause, punctuated by the gentle creak of the boat. "I don't know how I made a human body, but here I am. The Ryans have been hiding me." Uncle Bjorn's expression softened, not with pity, but with a comprehension borne of countless storms weathered and horizons expanded. He leaned forward, his massive frame casting shadows that danced with the flicker of the cabin's lone light. Searching Draco’s eyes with the precision of a navigator charting unseen waters, Uncle Bjorn spoke. "That’s quite the adventure." His voice held the timbre of seasoned oak, firm and unyielding. Draco's fingers twitched, a spasmodic dance born of an internal struggle. His voice, edged with a defiance that faltered under the weight of truth, broke the cabin's solemn silence. "I'm human now," he said. “Without a doubt,” Uncle Bjorn replied. The room seemed to contract around them, the walls pressing closer with each syllable Uncle Bjorn uttered. It was as if the world itself hung on his conjecture, pondering the implications of a being wrought from the fabric of the cosmos. "Does your sister play at the Ares Dome?" His question, simple on its surface, plunged depths untold, seeking the essence of Draco’s existence. The mention of Cass sparked a light in Draco's eyes, a beacon in the fog of his predicament. "She does," he replied, a surge of pride lending strength to his words. "Cass navigates the arenas of the Ares Dome with the same finesse she applies to the physical world." Draco's eyes, bright with the reflection of a far-off digital realm, met Uncle Bjorn's inquisitive gaze. "Yes," he confirmed, the certainty of her presence in that virtual world as solid as the deck beneath their feet. Uncle Bjorn leaned forward, his beard bristling like the dense underbrush of an untamed forest. The weight of his question hung in the air, ripe with implications and possibilities. "What's her name there?" "Tinman," Draco uttered, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with an emotion that betrayed the gravity of the name. Upon hearing this, the big man's chair creaked under his mass as he turned in one fluid, deliberate motion. With an authoritative rumble that resonated through the wooden walls of the cabin, Uncle Bjorn commanded the space around him. "Tommy, get in here." Draco watched the exchange, a mix of relief and apprehension swirling within him like the churning waters they sailed upon. His gaze followed the large man's every move, aware that the fate of his secret—and possibly his sister Cass—rested in those calloused hands. The door's sudden impact against the wall echoed through the room like a shot, snapping Draco's attention away from his swirling thoughts. In the doorway stood Tommy, his eager expression rapidly morphing into one of cautious curiosity. "Yes, Uncle?" His voice betrayed a hint of breathlessness, as if he had been sprinting to answer the summons. Uncle Bjorn, a veritable mountain of a man whose presence seemed to bend the very air around him, fixed his gaze upon the boy with an intensity that suggested the importance of his next words. "You have a headset and play at the Ares Dome sometimes." His statement hung between them, not quite a question yet demanding an answer all the same. "Have you ever heard of Tinman?" As the words left his lips, they seemed to Draco to carry the weight of mountains, underlining their significance without overstating their urgency. Tommy's eyes sparked with recognition, a surge of excitement animating his features as the name Tinman triggered a cascade of virtual memories. "Oh my gosh, yes," he said, leaning forward slightly as if the very act would bring him closer to the legend of the Ares Dome. "She’s one of the top players, they call her the Queen of Warriors." Uncle Bjorn's face remained impassive, betraying none of the surprise or awe that Tommy's words might have elicited from another. Instead, he nodded, the motion slow and deliberate, as though each nod were a piece in a complex strategy. "Use discretion, tell nobody at the dome you’re looking for her," he instructed, his voice low and even, ensuring no word went astray. "I want you to connect to the Dome and try to find Tinman. Tell her we have Draco and he's safe." Tommy absorbed the gravity of his uncle's charge, the giddy light in his eyes giving way to a steely resolve. With a sharp nod, he turned on his heel, the room's sparse light glinting off his headset as he moved to carry out the task—the link between worlds resting snugly against his ears. Tommy's posture straightened as the weight of his charge settled upon his shoulders; a broadening of his eyes betrayed both honor and apprehension at the task ahead. "Yes, Uncle," he affirmed with quiet determination, "I'll find her." At the room's edge, Draco, having caught the swell of an urgent tide, pushed against the mattress in an effort to rise. The rib within his chest protested sharply, a jagged reminder of his physical limits. Yet, before he could marshal his strength further, Uncle Bjorn's gaze fell upon him, harsh as the gales that had battered their vessel. It was a glance that spoke volumes, echoing through the small quarters with unseen force. As the door swung shut behind Tommy, the room seemed to shrink around Draco. A palpable silence enveloped him, punctuated only by the gentle creaking of the ship that cradled them both. His breaths came in short, sharp gasps, each one a battle against the pain lancing from his ribcage. "Cass might be injured," he rasped through gritted teeth, his voice barely a whisper above the murmur of the river outside. "I have to find her." Uncle Bjorn, whose presence filled the space between the wooden walls, crossed his arms over his chest—a bastion of calm in the midst of Draco's storm of worry. His eyes, deep and fathomless as the waters below, fixed on the young man with an unyielding steadiness. "She’s fine," Uncle Bjorn countered, his voice a low rumble that seemed to reverberate through the cabin's timbers. "You said you saw her get into your catamaran and seal the hatch, but we didn’t see any boats." He paused, the lines on his weathered face etching a map of quiet assurance. "That creek you came out of was too small; the catamaran likely got wedged between some trees. All she had to do was sit tight and wait out the flood." Draco's mind raced, images of Cass—her determined eyes, the set of her jaw as she faced each new challenge—flashing before him. Yet within the tempest of his thoughts, Uncle Bjorn's words anchored him to a hopeful possibility. "If the boat was on its side or flipped over," Uncle Bjorn continued, settling back into his chair with an audible creak, "an automatic emergency beacon would have been sent to search and rescue. We haven’t seen any rescue shuttles." In those words lay a sliver of hope, a lifeline amidst the uncertainty that threatened to drown Draco's resolve. Tension ebbed from Draco's frame, a gentle release as Uncle Bjorn's words settled over him like a comforting cloak. The logic was irrefutable; Cass, armed with her ingenuity and the catamaran's safety measures, had more than a fighting chance. She would not have been left to the river's mercy without signaling for aid, and the absence of rescue shuttles spoke louder than fear's whispering doubts. Draco allowed himself this small solace, his shoulders easing their rigid guard as the knot in his stomach loosened. Uncle Bjorn's gaze shifted, steel-blue eyes cutting through the room's dimness to settle on his nephew. "Get going," he commanded, a simple directive that carried the weight of unspoken urgency. Tommy, who seemed to vibrate with the readiness of youth, needed no further prompting. His movements were swift, a testament to his eagerness to bridge the distance between Draco and the sister he sought with such fervor. "You still want to go for that swim," he queried, the hint of a challenge playing at the corners of his mouth, "or you going to lay back down and let that rib heal?" His voice, gruff as the rolling tide, left no room for argument, only the choice that now hung suspended in the air like sea mist. Draco's initial impulse was defiance, a spark that fizzed within him, ready to ignite. The very notion of capitulation ran contrary to the currents of his nature. Yet, as the weight of Uncle Bjorn's stare settled upon him, as heavy and unyielding as an anchor in the deep, Draco felt the stirrings of wisdom tempering the fire of his resolve. He drew in a breath, shallow so as not to disturb the fractured bone that lay beneath flesh and sinew like a fault line. It was a breath that tasted of salt and surrender, a silent admission that sometimes strength lay in stillness, in the ebb rather than the flow. "Maybe I'll rest a bit longer," Draco conceded, his voice barely above a whisper, the words themselves a reluctant balm to his restless spirit. He reclined against the bunk, the coarse fabric beneath him a reminder of his current confines—of safety, of healing. Uncle Bjorn nodded, a simple gesture that carried the gravity of a storm passed, the understanding of a captain who knows when to ride the waves and when to seek harbor. With a creak of timber and a sigh from worn joints, Uncle Bjorn rose from his chair and made his way to the doorway. "Good," he said, approval warm in his tone, "let's keep you afloat a while longer." And with those parting words, Uncle Bjorn stepped through the threshold, leaving Draco to the quiet solace of the cabin, where thoughts could drift like vessels on the water, buoyed by hope and the promise of tomorrow. Draco's grin unfurled like the first break of dawn, small yet undeniable in its presence. The corners of his mouth hitched upward, a silent capitulation to the wisdom of Uncle Bjorn's words. With every intention of defiance melting away, he surrendered to the weight of his own battered body and eased back onto the bunk. The fabric beneath him whispered against his skin as Draco settled in, a hushed conversation between cloth and flesh, discussing the terms of his temporary imprisonment. He wriggled slightly, coaxing comfort from the sparse cushioning that supported his spine. The cot, with its unyielding embrace, became an ally in his convalescence. Shadows danced across the wooden planks of the cabin walls, thrown by the gentle sway of lantern light. They leaped like playful sprites, each one telling a story of the river's constant churn outside—tales of might-have-beens, adventures delayed but not denied. Here, within these confines, time seemed to stretch and yawn, unbothered by the urgency of the world beyond the porthole. In that moment, Draco existed in two worlds—one of confinement and healing, the other of boundless skies and open waters. But for now, he chose the former, allowing the latter to wait for another day, when his bones were mended and his spirit, once more, unbreakable. *** Bjorn crossed the deck of the schooner to the man standing at the large wooden wheel, guiding the vessel with sure hands down the river. “Aye, brother, what say you of the guppy?” Aage asked. “The name he gave us was a lie,” Bjorn replied, his eyes scanning the river ahead. “But the yarn he spun I cannot tell, I only know he believes it. I suspect his Pa is a failed scientist, desperate and without options, and not even a mother to guide the lad. Nobody else would dare steal from a Corporation. It’s created a troubled boy. I’ve sent Tommy to the Ares Dome to make contact with the girl he claims to be his sister. I suggest we do everyone a favor and tie an anchor to the lad’s ankle and drop him over the side.” Aage chuckled. “That’s your solution for every river rat we drag aboard. Let’s wait and hear from the girl, then we’ll know our proper heading.”