Regeneration by Stephanie Saulter Read Free Book Online

the authorities, but it really wasn’t much of a problem!’—well, that’s dismissive, implying it was too pathetic to be bothered about. There might be really good reasons to go either way, but you can’t do both. You need to decide.”
    Pilan and Lapsa were both smiling oddly at him. Qiyem, who never offered an opinion if he could help it, sat silent and impassive, but Gabriel heard a muffled snort from Agwé. He did not dare look around at her. Most of the time he didn’t mind relinquishing his telepathy and the unpleasant things it often showed him, but now he found himself wishing that he could reach up and tap the band off, just for a moment.
    “If you do want to put it out there,” he went on hastily, discomfited, “that should happen right away. If you don’t, well, just remember it could kick off in the next five minutes anyway. Although it would probably be better for the police investigation if it didn’t,” he added, remembering any number of Sharon’s grumpy rants about how publicity generally got in the way of good police work.
    “I think that’s another good argument for staying quiet,” Pilan said. “And I don’t want to give these asses, whoever they are, any more of our time and attention than we have to.” He gestured at the screen behind Gabriel. “Talk to Agwé about what she recorded, read what Qiyem’s putting in the file, draft something for the streams and send it to me. Beyond that, it’s business as usual.”
    “You are such a grown-up,” Agwé laughed, as soon as Lapsa and Pilan had gone and Qiyem had taken himself back to his usual spot at the furthest end of the room.
    “What?”
    “You should hear yourself! You rattle off all this stuff—‘reports to Planning’ and ‘cooperating with authorities’ and how to spin the streams—you’re so professional, Gabe. Honestly.”
    “ Me? Remind me who’s documenting this project?”
    “Mmm . . .”
    “For a degree in underwater photojournalism, no less?”
    “That’s just being sensible.” She shrugged and moved over to sit on the worktop next to him. “All the licensed journos are topsiders, even the gems. Every now and then someone drags on a divesuit, but the truth is they’re pretty terrible at covering what happens below. I’m filling a niche.”
    “How very professional of you.”
    She grinned down at him, her luminescent hair tumbling in an unruly mass around a mobile, mischievous face with wide cheekbones, huge brown eyes, and a never-ending smile. She favored bodysuits in warm, vivid colors as rich and deep as her own dark skin. Lapsa might have chosen to foster her in part because of how alike they looked, but if Lapsa was a gentle whisper, Agwé had grown into a joyous shout.
    “Do you want to split hairs or look at pictures?”
    “Pictures, please.”
    As Agwé spun smoothly off the worktop and onto the seat Qiyem had vacated, Gabriel felt the request for control of his screen as she activated her band. He assented, and the first of the sequences she had recorded appeared. She dropped into a low and, he thought, very professional monologue as she described what they were looking at. They spent a little time on close-ups of the turbines, hit so violently by the sudden current that blades had twisted and bearings ruptured, then she showed him some odd furrows in the silt, perpendicular to the array.
    “That would make sense if there was a strong current directly above,” she said. “Speaking of which, if I put a filter on the security vids, we might see what your mom saw.”
    “Let’s do it.”
    She played it the first time without alteration, and they watched as a row of turbines turned broadside to the current, apparently of their own volition. Then Agwé added the filter and some of the surfaces assumed an odd, too-shiny patina. This time they could see a faint, silvery turbulence roiling out of the side of the image and separate into little whirligigs of force as it hit the turbine