Shattered Skies

by ALICE HENDERSON

  The sides of the ship flared out near the top, making the climb more difficult, and in the last stretch, her feet swung free as she pulled herself up with just her arms. At last she reached the bottom deck of the ship and grasped a railing. As she pulled herself up, a sudden pain flared in her fingers: a PPC trooper had slammed his boot down on her hand. She reached behind her, slinging the rifle off her back, and shot him at close range. He flew back, jittering from the electric jolt. Two more soldiers closed in, and she shot them too, then crested the railing.

  Chaos reigned on deck. PPC troopers dressed in black held their positions behind pillars as Death Riders streamed over the railings. Smoke drifted over the deck, the biting smell of cordite from the Death Riders’ guns palpable in the wind. PPC execs escaped to the upper decks, while some were gunned down on the stairwells. A Death Rider with a bone breastplate reached an elevator just as five execs tried to pile into it. He mowed them all down, their blood spraying the walls of the lift. H124 scanned the maelstrom for any sign of Willoughby, but the noise and smoke overwhelmed her senses as dozens of PPC execs fled the area and Death Riders swarmed the blood-soaked deck.

  Byron appeared over the railing. “How the hell are we going to find Willoughby in this?”

  And then she saw him, two decks up, kneeling before the railing, hands bound behind his back. Two Repurposers stood over him. “There!”

  Chapter 17

  “I see him,” Byron told H124.

  The nearest stairwell stood twenty feet away, across a deck slick with blood. She rose and raced toward it, unslinging the rifle from her back. She tore up the stairs, whipped around the landing, and started to climb the next set to the third level. She crouched, ascending quietly, peeking her head above the staircase. Between her and Willoughby lay the dead bodies of three PPC soldiers and a Death Rider, his face melted, distorted by a lethal blast from an energy rifle.

  The two Repurposers didn’t see her. They simply stared at a fixed location to her left and out of sight, their black eyes beady and cruel.

  “Bring him in here!” cried a familiar voice. “We still need him as a bargaining chip.”

  H124 froze. Olivia. She must be just inside one of the cabin doors.

  The two Repurposers grabbed Willoughby roughly under the arms and dragged him toward Olivia’s voice. H124 inhaled at the sight of Willoughby’s face. He’d been beaten so severely that both eyes were swollen shut, his handsome face a mass of bruises, his cheekbones crushed. Hands and feet bound in chains, he dripped blood and sweat onto the deck as they heaved him along.

  She was about to leap forward when Byron gripped her arm. She gave him a backwards glance. He motioned a ring with his hand. “We don’t know if she has troopers with her,” he whispered. “I’ll circle around. Let’s meet in the middle.” She nodded, and Byron skirted back down the stairs. She watched him round the corner, springing for the stairs on the other side.

  She heard a door close above her and had crept back out of sight when a Death Rider bounded up the stairs to her rear. She turned and fired the rifle at his chest, sending him sprawling back onto the deck. From her perch, she had only a limited view of the bottom of the stairs. Another Death Rider came into sight, glancing down at his fallen companion before aiming the barrel of an AK-47 up the staircase. She sent another lethal blast coursing through his body. The man collapsed, jittering on the floor.

  Above, she heard boots slapping the deck. She dared a glance out of the stairwell to see twenty PPC troopers marching toward her. At the bottom, two more Death Riders appeared. Soon she’d be trapped between them.

  Grabbing the railing, she swung herself up the rest of the stairs and darted around the bannister, fleeing from the advancing soldiers. The lead trooper spotted her, raising his weapon. She flung herself flat on the ground, bringing her rifle around, but before she could fire, the trooper’s chest exploded like a volcano. A Death Rider crested the stairs, holding a smoking sawed-off shotgun. Painted in blood, with black teeth filed to a point, he screamed in delight as he unloaded another round into the next trooper’s face. The PPC phalanx fell out of formation, its troopers scattering as a stream of Death Riders emerged from the staircase, blasting away.

  H124’s ears rang. She ran along the deck. To her right stood the interior of the ship, posh etched glass and wooden walls. Inside she spied a fancy dining area and a large ballroom with entertainment monitors lining the walls.

  Holding a position within, at least a dozen advancing troopers headed toward the stern of the ship. She spotted Olivia standing in the middle of them, using them as a protective barrier. At the rear, dragged by the two Repurposers, Willoughby scraped across the floor.

  H124 sped along the exterior wall, taking cover when she passed by windows. Rounding the corner at the stern, she nearly collided with Byron. She grabbed his arm, glad to see he’d made it around without more than a fresh cut on his forehead. “Looks clear on that side,” he said. “Did you see all the troopers in there?”

  She nodded.

  Together they advanced to the nearest door, an ingress of swinging wood and glass that admitted them into the interior of the ship, just a few rooms away from Olivia’s troops.

  H124 glanced down at her PRD. Just sixty-six minutes until the asteroid fragment would hit.

  She and Byron passed through a small food preparation area, then to another room that sported an extravagant bar made entirely of intricately etched mirrors. Bottles with amber and silver liquid sparkled beneath the recessed lighting.

  At the next door they paused. Byron opened the door a crack and peered in. “This is it,” he whispered. “I count twenty-four troopers guarding her, plus the two Repurposers.” He gasped and quickly shut the door. “Oh, no.”

  “What is it?”

  “Company.”

  Rifle and shotgun blasts erupted on the other side of the door.

  H124 stood up and looked through the window. Death Riders from the stairwell poured in through the door. Muzzle flashes blinded her. The PPC troopers fired their energy weapons, felling a handful of Death Riders, but the PPC were greatly outnumbered.

  Olivia vanished through a door on the far side of the room with a contingent of soldiers. She gestured for the Repurposers to follow, hauling Willoughby in tow.

  This was H124’s chance. Olivia and the troopers were distracted. H124 kicked the door in and stayed low, moving against the wall to stay out of sight. Amid the roar of gunfire, the Repurposers carrying Willoughby didn’t hear her approach. She brought her rifle around to shoot them, but a trooper checked their six, spotting her. She dove as he fired. The Repurposers spun. One wheeled around and kicked the rifle from her hands, but not before she managed to squeeze off a shot. It hit him in the leg, and his electrified body keeled over. Her rifle skittered across the floor, toward the struggle in the center of the room.

  Olivia’s guards surged forward. Byron rolled and fired, reaching a table. Flipping it up, he made a shield, popping up and firing, holding them at bay.

  The second Repurposer strode toward H124, removing a flash burster from his long black coat. A shotgun blast splintered the chair and table next to her, hurling shards of metal and wood in every direction. She backed up, scrambling for a weapon. Her hand fell on the metal leg of the destroyed chair. She clenched it firmly, this singular object that stood between life and death. Just as the Repurposer got a bead on her with his flash burster, she thrust the chair leg into his stomach, driving it upward. A foul stench blossomed. She let go of the metal as a thick, black ooze seeped out of the Repurposer’s body, creeping down his leg and onto the floor. He slumped down, his black eyes somehow even emptier.

  The Death Rider with the sawed-off shotgun appeared nearby, a look of unbridled glee on his face, his mouth filled with blood. Then his grinning, painted face melted like wax as a PPC trooper hit him with a lethal blast from an energy rifle. She could hear O
livia barking orders in the next room. “Get up to the security floor! What are you doing! Bring Willoughby!”

  The gored Repurposer groaned on the floor, breathing his last. The Death Riders rushed the retinue of soldiers, pressing H124 into the throng. An elbow slammed into her shoulder, driving her to her knees. She pushed through the tangle of legs, spotting Willoughby just feet away. He lay on the floor in a fetal position, trampled underfoot in the clamor.

  Despite the odds she reached him, closing her hands around his shoulders. She shoved her foes out of the way, helpless as boots stomped them indiscriminately. Pulling him backward, she slid across the slippery floor, blood soaking her clothes. The chains binding Willoughby’s hands and feet made it an impossible chore.

  Then Byron was beside her, shoving away the crowd. A shotgun went off inches from her face, deafening her world. Byron grabbed the chain between Willoughby’s feet as she cinched the links between his hands, and together they scrambled to their feet, lifting him between them. With her free hand she aimed her rifle on three Death Riders who burst through the rear door. She released a stream of electric fire, sending them skittering to the floor.

  Willoughby soon proved too heavy to carry with one hand. She slung the rifle around her back and grabbed the chain with both hands, hauling him through the bar, then the small kitchen, where they burst outside into a world of smoke and fire. The deck below had ignited, spitting red and orange embers into the smoldering sky. As the auto-fire suppression systems rained a foul-smelling, puffy white substance over the deck, she slipped, struggling to keep hold of her father. He lagged in his chains, drifting in and out of consciousness. Bound as he was, there was no way he was going to walk on his own. And they couldn’t carry him any longer.

  She directed Byron to a recessed doorway. They dragged Willoughby inside.

  Troopers clashed with Death Riders just beyond the entryway. She saw the man with the human skull epaulettes, thrusting his finger into the air, directing his fighters toward the upper floors. “Seize the helm!” he shouted. She spotted a small craft on the top deck, glistening in the sunlight, resembling a tiny PPC airship that probably couldn’t hold more than a few passengers.

  To her right, a group of troopers attempted to set up another sonic gun, until the Death Riders swarmed over them.

  She drew her pocket pyro and ignited it. Byron did the same, and they went to work cutting through Willoughby’s chains. The bindings sloughed to the floor.

  Then came the unmistakable sound of a fifty-caliber gun cracking off a series of shots. The troopers by the sonic gun erupted in a crimson mist, heads flung back, mowed down in an arc of bullets, their mounted gun tearing and shredding as if it were aluminum.

  Willoughby mumbled something incoherent. She bent down, coaxing him to sit up. He groaned as he cradled his head.

  “Can you run?” she asked him.

  He let out a soft laugh, running his tongue over the open cut on his lip. “I can damn well try.”

  She peered out. The deck to their left was clear, where just a handful of bodies were strewn about a growing pool of blood. To their right was the Death Rider with the epaulettes, sprinting up the stairs toward the helm.

  They hurried to the nearest railing as H124 pulled a rope out of her toolbag. Below them the ubiquitous trash sloshed on the swelling waves, bobbing along the empty hoverboats. She tied a makeshift harness around Willoughby’s hips and torso and directed him over the railing, lowering him down to one of the boats with Byron’s help. The second he touched down, she vaulted over the rail, taking hold of the rope, and descended quickly, Byron following suit.

  Once on board, Byron struggled with the ignition wires, and she whipped the rope free from the railing.

  The engine roared to life. As Byron swung away from the ship, she could see Olivia surrounded by Death Riders on the fourth deck, the man with the skull epaulettes approaching her. She held out her hands, not in a pleading way, but as if she still had all the power and was merely negotiating. She pointed up, in the direction of the asteroid that would soon hit.

  The man crossed his arms, listening.

  H124 checked her PRD. Thirty-five minutes until impact. She brought up the comm window and called Gordon. His face appeared, grim in the cockpit of the helicopter. “We’re ready,” she told him.

  “That CIWS is not making things easy,” he said. “The helicopter’s been hit, but I don’t know how bad it is yet. How far away can you get from that thing?”

  They sped around the side of the ship, the lift fan behind them roaring so loudly she could barely hear him. She spotted the platform with the CIWS, its rapid-fire system swiveling and following the path of the helicopter.

  “Take us in the opposite direction from that!” she shouted to Byron above the din, pointing to the weapon.

  He nodded and wheeled the boat around, speeding away from the ship. Willoughby groaned. He collapsed in the bottom of the boat, the blood seeping from a wound in his side.

  She held on to him as they bounced along the waves. She heard the dull beating of the helicopter’s rotor and looked up to see Gordon approaching from the right, angling away from the ship to pick them up.

  About four miles out, Gordon’s path converged with theirs, and he began to lower over them. A ladder unfurled from the open door, dropping right into the boat.

  She tugged on Willoughby, forcing him to stand. “You have to climb! I’ll be right behind you!”

  He looked up, his vision reduced to a tiny crack over one of his swollen eyelids. She steered his bloody hands to the rungs, helping him climb the first steps. She got on behind him, guiding him up. He winced through the pain, until at last they reached the helicopter. Byron scrambled inside after them.

  “All in?” Gordon asked.

  “Yes!” she called.

  Gordon reeled in the ladder, then hit the control to shut the helicopter door. The ensuing quiet made H124 feel safer already. The skilled pilot banked away, heading east toward the mainland, reaching maximum speed. The inertia slammed them back, once more sinking them into their seats. When the speed maxed out, she helped Willoughby to the back of the helicopter, where they managed to lay him out.

  Once he was more safely positioned, they buckled themselves into their seats.

  She checked the impact time. Twenty-four minutes.

  According to the data Orion had loaded into her PRD, they had to get at least two hundred miles away or the air blast could down them and blow out the windows of the chopper. This was going to be too close.

  She stared out of the window anxiously, watching the ocean speed by below. In time the white and grey of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch gave way to the more beautiful, familiar sapphire.

  Seventeen minutes until impact.

  The sea stretched on and on. She had no sense of how much ground they were covering unless she looked at her PRD display. The engine whined as Gordon pushed the helicopter to its limit. No one spoke.

  Seven minutes till impact.

  They watched in silence, gripping their seats. Willoughby groaned from the back of the helicopter.

  She checked her PRD. Thirty seconds to impact. On her display, the animated fragment impacted with the sea’s surface. “It’s hit,” she said. She ran a calculation on Orion’s program, entering their current location from the impact site. “Air blast will hit us in about sixteen minutes.”

  She braced herself as Gordon sped on, recalling the air blast that had almost downed the plane when they’d escaped with the first piece of the blast deflection craft.

  Byron reached around the back of her seat and squeezed her shoulder. She placed her hand on his. They interlaced their fingers as she shut her eyes and leaned back in the seat.

  And then the air blast hit them. The tail of the helicopter lurched up violently, and they fell into a nosedive, Gordon fighting desperately for control
as they went into a tailspin. The windows shuddered, just barely staying intact. As they spun downward, H124 squeezed her eyes shut to block out the view of the ocean rushing up to meet them. Byron fell back into his seat, and Willoughby cried out in terror.

  Gordon managed to wrest control of the helicopter. He halted the spin, lifting them back up in the very last instant, just feet above the water. Straightening them out, he rocketed away to the east.

  H124 let out a gasp of relief.

  Byron hugged her around the back of her seat.

  “Way to go!” she called to Gordon, who looked over his shoulder, visibly shaken but smiling that familiar smile.

  She thought of the small airship she’d seen on The Morning Star, and wondered if anyone had reached it in time. Maybe Olivia had used it to escape. If not, she wondered what Olivia’s final moments must have been like, imagining the monstrous tidal wave that would have inundated the ship, drowning the floating Death Rider city. She wondered what the asteroid fragment had looked like, streaming down in a trail of fire, breaking up in the atmosphere.

  But mostly she wondered what Olivia’s last thought had been. Whatever it was, it likely been cold, cruel, and calculating.

  Chapter 18

  Gordon touched down outside Rivet’s hangar at the satellite site. Carrying Willoughby between them, H124 and Byron struggled off the helicopter. Felix, the Rover doctor, was waiting with a maglev stretcher, its copters already whirring away and ready to rush Willoughby to a medpod.

  As they eased him onto the stretcher, Willoughby gripped her hand. “You were crazy to come after me.” He winced as he talked, clutching his ribs. “But thank you.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t have left you like that.”

  His grip on her hand loosened as Felix commanded the maglev to follow him to a medpod. H124 watched him go.