by Lydia Hope
A stainless steel insulated jar that Simon had flattened with a hammer to resemble a flask was tied by a string to her neck. It rested against her midriff, molded to her torso, its bulk easily concealed by her winter clothes.
The tram stopped with a jerk, causing one man to fall and curse. Calculating that she’d reached her destination, Gemma got off just before the tram shot away from the stop like demons of hell were chasing it. She looked around for an attendant who was supposed to equip her with the hand-held magnet.
No one made an appearance.
The area was devoid of activity, making the ever-present background noise of heavy engines so much more overwhelming in the complete stillness. It was like swimming in pure noise.
She started walking along a row of hangars. The wind blew in strong gusts between the structures, bringing with it the smell of burning fuel. Turning the corner, Gemma came to an area jumbled with multi-sized cranes and gantries, some of them moving, hauling loads. There were workers there, busy and focused on their tasks.
And beyond the courtyard, she could see a launch pad at the edge of glistening water of the bay. A small shuttle was sitting in position, attached to its holding tower. Gemma stared at it, imagining Butan poised to fly off like this. If there were passengers in that little shuttle, where were they going? They must have a destination. They would arrive at some place.
Where would she and Simon arrive at?
“Hey, what are you doing here?” Someone grabbed her by the arm.
Startled, she whirled around assuming a defensive stance and came face-to-face with a young man. His cheeks were red from the cold, and his eyes were red from some unknown substance. Weed probably, based on Gemma’s limited experience with users at the prison.
“I am here to work. But they never told me where to go.”
“Are you the metal debris collector?”
“Yes! That’s me, alright.”
“Where’s your slip?” He extended a hand, inpatient.
“I don’t have any. Do I have to have it?”
The young man’s bloodshot eyes rolled up, and he heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, you need an authorization slip. Now, what am I supposed to do about you?”
“Well, you can put me to work now and worry about the slip later.”
The young man brightened at such an easy solution. “Good idea. You may not get paid without a slip, but hey, not my problem. Follow me.”
He led her back past the hangars and by what looked like a small factory.
“What is this?” Gemma asked, pointing at the factory.
“The power plant.”
“The docks have a designated power plant?”
The man gave her a droll stare. “They do.”
She hadn’t known. Uncle Drexel, her only acquaintance from the docks, hadn’t talked much about the place at the dinner table.
“Is it nuclear?” she tried to draw information out of the man.
“What else?” he didn’t sound keen on maintaining a conversation.
“Well, as far as I know, it could be any kind of fuel. Diesel. Natural gas. Or liquid nitrogen.” He was walking fast, and Gemma, with her bad ankle, struggled to keep up.
Her blabbering earned her another contemptuous look from the red eyes.
“Diesel? Not for power plants.”
“For the ships, then. Or for the equipment.”
“Everything is electric-powered. And only the most backward spaceships still use burning fuels for takeoff.”
“But if some ships do, the docks would have all kinds of fuels. I wasn’t too far off, was I?”
“You’re a strange one for sure.”
“A careful one. What with the chemicals that are stored here, if something goes wrong, this entire place can blow up, right? Aren’t you scared to work here?”
He stopped and scoffed. “Scared? It’s the safest place. See there? There’s a special wall around the fuel storage. If an alarm goes off, a shield will rise from it to hermetically seal the entire area and smother the flames. Got it?” He was pointing to the right, a short distance away.
“Got it. Thanks.”
After a half-assed effort to show her what to do, Red Eyes left Gemma alone promising to come back later to check on her.
It took her an hour of slow crawling on her hands and knees to reach the fuel storage area while sweeping enthusiastically with her magnet wand over the ground as instructed. The hidden canister at her belly made the crawling awkward, forcing her to spread her arms and legs wide in a manner of a she-crab.
The fuel storage was organized haphazardly with barrels and massive jars stacked up precariously high. Most were labeled with chemical hazard signs that proclaimed the contents to be flesh-dissolving and extremely flammable.
“Great,” she muttered, puzzling over the process of extracting the needed amount of liquid nitrogen.
Not knowing exactly how it was stored at the docks, Simon had never instructed her on the how-tos of the transfer. He had, however, explained to her that the chemical wasn’t acutely dangerous except for its extremely low temperature. No touching was imperative, and no contact with eyes. A drop of it in the eye would cause the eye membrane to crystallize and shutter like superfine glass, allowing the eye fluid to flow freely out of the socket.
Gemma blinked rapidly remembering his warning.
She stood up and bent backward to stretch her aching back. Scanning the labels, she tried to figure out what was what. Common sense dictated that liquid nitrogen wouldn’t be left in an open container, so Gemma disregarded all that didn’t have lids.
Gaze sharpening with purpose, she took notice of two large cylindrical tanks - cryogenic tanks, or dewars. The oversized lettering on them spelled “LN2.” The dewars were as tall as she and three times as fat. They looked pressurized, their heavy lids topped with wheels for tightening. There were outlets to which a dispensing hose would attach to pour the contents out, but the hoses were missing. Gemma checked around, looking behind the tanks in hopes of finding them there, but no.
The two tanks sat there like mean and bloated sentries, silently laughing at her.
She mulled her problem over, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings in case the red-eyed foreman decided to come and check on her now. Unbuttoning her coat, she pulled her insulated flask off her neck and uncapped it. Approaching the closest tank, she made sure her gloves were completely covering skin before fisting her metal detector and pointing the sharper of its two ends to the tank’s side.
“Please don’t blow up. Please don’t blow up,” she prayed, warding off fear of what she was about to do.
She closed her eyes and pulled her hat over them for protection. Taking a deep breath, she blindly rammed the metal stick with all her might into the tank’s thick belly. The sound of metal striking metal was quickly absorbed by the already loud churning of the docks. She felt the aluminum tear and jumped away, leaving her tool embedded in the tank.
Peeking from beneath the hat, she observed white vapor roll out from the breach. Nitrogen droplets followed, escaping their container and skittering spasmodically on the ground. With utmost care, Gemma stuck her thermos under the erratic flow of the super-cold liquid gas, quickly snatching her gloved hands away.
The escaping fluid sputtered out more than steadily flowed, and all Gemma could do was stand there amid the thickening white cloud in agonizing wait and watch their would-be fuel make its way, drop by random drop, inside her thermos.
Finally, when she didn’t think she could take it anymore, it was full enough. Gemma snatched the container and twisted the cap on, looping the strap over her head and buttoning her coat. Thin tendrils of vapor leaked through the tiny hole in the cap that Simon had made for ventilation, and weaved around her torso, transforming her into some mythical sorceress. Probably a cool look but conspicuous as hell.
The nitrogen continued to leak out from the damaged dewar, spreading, freezing everything it came in contact wi
th. The cloud of cold vapor had grown dense and was rolling thick along the ground. Soon, it would reach the containers with other chemicals.
The realization turbo-charged Gemma’s need to haul ass.
She scampered away, hiding behind containers. She peered out to see if the coast was clear, and immediately jerked back. Red Eyes was standing in the clearing gesturing at another man who had his arms folded across his chest. The noise drowned out what was being said, but it became painfully clear to Gemma that she, or rather her absence, was the object of their discussion.
Turning, she started walking fast in the opposite direction. It didn’t matter where she went so long as she could eventually come across a tram stop.
Finding her way was hard, for she had no sense of direction in this vast overdeveloped area. The docks were a city within a city, a place with its own set of rules, a labyrinth with no map. All that noise and constant movement were making Gemma disoriented, and the persistent nitrogen smoke surrounding her wasn’t helping with focusing.
She didn’t know what guided her, but somehow she found herself on a tram, zooming towards the gate. There were only a few people on it with her, all miserably looking and huddled against the cold. But the headwind blew the nitrogen vapors away, and no one noticed anything strange.
She got off at the last stop, which was also the first for those coming in.
“You done?” the guard at the gate asked her.
“Yes, sir.” Her legs shook from nerves as she approached.
“Slip?”
“I don’t have one. They told me I can’t get paid, so I’m outta here.”
Several men were walking in, and Gemma stepped away from the guard to let them pass.
The guard was frowning. “What’s wrong with you?”
The gate protected them from the wind, which meant the smoking action from the thermos got underway full-force, enveloping Gemma in a fluffy white cloud.
The incoming workers also threw her curious looks.
“Spilled chemicals on my coat. No biggie. Have a nice…” a loud boom cut off her last word. Everyone stopped and turned to look where the sound came from.
Gemma’s heart dropped from foreboding.
“There! The chick in the dark jacket!”
Whirling around, she spotted her red-eyed foreman with two big men on either side of him. All three were running in the direction of the foreman’s pointing finger. Toward her.
The busted nitrogen tank had been discovered.
At the same time, a siren shrieked, and an extractable shield started rising over the fuel storage area.
“Shit,” Gemma said out loud and bolted.
“Hold her, dammit! She’s responsible!”
The guard leapt from behind the partition where he was stationed and took off after her.
There were shouts, and other people joined in the pursuit, but Gemma didn’t stop to count how many. She flew for the junkyard, her only goal to pass the thermos to Simon. She’d come this far. She couldn't fail now. Simon had to go home. And maybe Butan could fly? Without the liquid nitrogen, they’d never know.
Something warm whizzed next to her ear, and she heard a zap of a laser gun. To her shock, it registered that her pursuers were armed and that they meant business.
She zig-zagged down the street like a rabbit, acting on pure instinct. Reaching the junkyard, she vaulted over the first piece of rusted junk with aplomb born of mortal fear, stumbling as she landed on her feet, bending low. More zaps crisscrossed the air around her, hitting metal parts and making smoking holes in them. Her throat felt constricted from sprinting in the cold, and her heartbeat so fast she thought it might burst from her chest.
She pushed forward, taking cover behind chunks of broken machinery.
Suddenly, a zap came from up ahead, and a well-aimed at that. A man behind her screamed, and she thought he fell, but she didn’t dare look back. Running and ducking took all she had as her tiring legs were quickly turning to noodles.
The thermos continued its cold steaming.
Coming to a decision, Gemma ripped open her coat and took it off, placing it on the ground next to a rusted sheet of metal. Simon would be able to find it later. She couldn't risk losing it for good if she got caught.
She plowed ahead, reminding herself to stay low. It was easier to run without the thermos. The shots quieted down - did her pursuers lose her? - and for a moment she thought she could get away.
And then it happened.
Her right foot twisted under her, sending a firework of sharp shocks blooming up her leg. Without proper support, her body hit the ground, sliding, skidding on ice, and coming to a stop with her head buried in iron debris. The impact set off an earthquake in her brain, and the lights went out.
Chapter 28
Gemma woke up alert. She opened her eyes, took a look at the ceiling above her, and closed her eyes again, wishing she never woke up at all.
First, because her head hurt like it never hurt in her life, with a kind of piercing, relentless pain that made her want to scream, except hearing the sound of her voice would probably make it worse. Could it be worse? She didn’t want to find out.
And secondly, because she knew where she was. In the second her hazy unfocused eyes latched onto the ceiling, the place registered. There could be no other peeling moldy yellow ceiling like this in the City. No smell like this, too. Her nose was off, but she could taste it all in the back of the throat: the boiled gruel, unclean toilets, and years upon years of sickly sweat.
She was inside the prison.
Gemma kept very still. Her skull felt like a pressurized cooker whose contents were too much for its size. But the pressure mounted and mounted until she thought her head would simply explode off her shoulders, until nausea rose suddenly and sharply, scalding the back of her throat. She rolled over to spew the remnants of her canned breakfast before she choked on them, felt the bile leave her mouth, and slumped into unconsciousness.
The next time she came to, clarity didn’t immediately accompany the consciousness. She lay there, disoriented, as random images from her past swirled lazily through her pounding head in technicolor. Her life on The Islands. Foy. The McKinleys. Her wall calendar. She missed the calendar and the measured flow of days as she meticulously crossed each one out. Each day started and ended without fail. Reassuring.
With a great deal of effort, Gemma cracked an eyelid open. It was pitch dark, but the night must still be young for the chill had only begun penetrating thick stone walls. The place would be freezing by morning.
She tried to sit up and fainted again.
“Time to wake up. Do you hear? Hey, you. Do you hear me? Wake up.”
Gemma came awake slowly, shaking. No, not shaking but being shaken by the shoulder. The movement upset her head, and the vicious stabs behind her eyelids made her moan.
“She’s coming around, sir. What’s her name?”
“Gemma. Her name is Gemma,” said the cultured voice that had featured prominently in her nightmares, whenever she’d happened to have one.
“You, Gemma. Wake up! Get on with it, now. People are waiting to talk to you.” The guard gave her shoulder another yank nearly succeeding in sending her back to oblivion.
“That bump on her head looks painful,” said the same cultured voice. “Bring her some water.”
There was a slight pause followed by a sound of retreating steps, and another voice, from a different set of nightmares, said, “My nurses have treated her sufficiently well, Dr. Delano. She doesn’t lack medical care.”
OO and Dr. Delano, together, standing over her bed at the prison. If she were forced to come up with a definition of hell on earth, this would be it.
“Sure,” Delano conceded in a tone that telegraphed his low opinion about the quality of medical care at the prison. Gemma was with him on that account. She couldn't remember receiving any care at all despite OO’s smooth assurances. “But I need her coherent as well as alive.”
“That’s interesting. You need this woman? Are you sure you aren’t making a mistake?”
Delano said coldly, “She’s important for my mission.”
Gemma felt OO’s gaze on her prostrate form laid out on the narrow cot and wondered if he was ogling the mounds of her breasts beneath her clothes.
“She’s a pretty little thing, I agree…” OO’s voice faded into an insinuating silence. Yep, he was definitely checking out her breasts. “But has too high of an opinion of herself. May turn out to be more trouble than she’s worth.”
“My interest in this woman is purely pragmatic,” faint indignation laced Dr. Delano’s words. “She’s a bait. A means to catch the Rix alien.”
“Our Rix alien? The one that escaped?” OO sounded astonished and alarmed.
“Yes, that one.”
“You aren’t planning on luring him back here, are you?” Now OO was very alarmed, no doubt remembering all the body bags they had to haul after Simon’s escape.
“I am. Is the security here in question?”
“Of course not.”
“Good. I have my people watching the perimeter. And your armed guards are on standby at the doors. Once he’s in, you’ll go on full lockdown. It’ll take mere minutes to have him contained.”
The water arrived by way of a foot-stomping guard. Without warning, Gemma was unceremoniously grabbed by the hair and pulled into a sitting position. She cried out and opened her sensitive eyes, working to make them focus. The walls bowed and buckled as vertigo took her on a wild ride.
“Here. Drink.” A tin cup appeared in front of her face, pressed hard against her lips, and tilted. Gemma had no choice but to gulp the foul-tasting water.
“Feeling better?” The impatient question came from Dr. Delano.
In response, Gemma retched noisily, emptying her stomach of the water she’d just drunk on the doctor’s shoes.
“Go to hell,” she croaked when her throat could work again.
“Sick bitch,” OO said. “What a mess. Guard! Bring cleaning supplies.”
