by Amie Kaufman
Silence sweeps in to follow him, his smile dimming a few degrees in confusion. It hangs in the air, thickening and thickening until finally the woman snaps. “Who the hell are you?”
The boy’s smile flashes back into brilliance at this, and as though he’d gotten the politest of greetings, he steps forward to hold out his hand. “Jules Thomas,” he says, inclining his torso a little. He’s bowing. He’s actually bowing, what the hell? “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. If you’d be so good as to direct me to the expedition leader, I can present my credentials and—”
He’s cut off by the click of the safety coming off a pistol, as the woman pulls it out of her holster and levels it at the boy.
Jules stops short, smile fading and hand lowering. His eyes flick from the gun to the face of the woman holding it, then to the other raider, and then, finally, to me. And whatever he sees written on my face—fear, exhaustion, general what-the-actual-hell-is-going-on panic—makes his smile vanish.
“Oh,” he says.
WELL, THIS COULD CERTAINLY BE going better. “I’m the linguistics and archaeology expert,” I say, slowly and clearly, lifting both my hands to show them I mean no harm. “I was hired by Charlotte Stapleton—you’re with the expedition from Global Energy Solutions, aren’t you?”
“Global Energy,” the woman echoes, gripping the gun like she’d really appreciate the opportunity to use it, if I’d just be so kind as to step a little bit closer.
Mehercule. It’s all I can do not to utter the epithet out loud. I knew when I signed on with Global Energy Solutions’ plan to bypass the law that the crew I’d be joining was rough around the edges, but I expected to live through my first five minutes of the expedition.
At least they’ve got decent security, I suppose. That’ll be an advantage, once we’ve sorted this out.
“I’m Jules Thomas,” I say again, in case it helps. It’s not my real surname, of course. I didn’t need Charlotte’s repeated warnings not to reveal my true identity. I know better than to let anyone in this crew aside from its leader know who my father is.
“¿Quién carajo es esto?” asks the woman still sighting down her pistol at me.
“I told you,” I say, starting to feel like a glitching audio file. “I’m Jules Thomas. These were the coordinates I was given—I’m supposed to meet the expedition leader here. Tengo instrucciones para reunirse con su jefe aquí.”
“You can keep saying that as much as you want.” The last guy—just a kid, to judge from the higher pitch of his voice—finally speaks up, gruff behind his kerchief. “But I really don’t think these are your people, dude.” The gun swings around to train on him for a moment when he speaks. But that would imply he’s not part of their group—which means these are raiders, from more than one group. And that not all of them are as noble-minded as Global Energy Solutions.
“I’m beginning to think the same,” I mutter.
“No talking,” snaps the woman.
I risk one more question. “How likely is it they’re about to shoot us?”
“Very,” says the boy, easing his weight back as the gun swings around to me again. I can’t make out his face behind the kerchief and goggles and helmet, but there’s a tension in his voice that ratchets mine up another notch.
I wonder if they name a major landmark after you if you’re one of the first people to die on a new planet.
“You can take my pack,” I try, pointing at it, playing for time as a plan starts to slide together in my head. “I’ll show you how my equipment works. You’ll like it. I’ve got food, too. Chocolate.”
Both the armed thugs fix their attention squarely on me for that last one—even if it’s not to their taste, it’s worth a fortune on the black market. And here, luxuries will be in short supply. Whoever they are, someone in their group will want it. I brought it to make friends with the other members of my expedition, a preemptive strike before any of them could decide that the smart kid would be a good target for mockery—but I’ll just have to charm them without it.
The boy’s edging around behind them while they’re distracted, and as he reaches for his pack, I suddenly realize his intent. He’s going to grab it and leave me here. Can I blame him? Maybe he’d go bring back help, but I don’t think this can wait. This duo looks awfully trigger-happy. If he makes a break for it, I’ll pay the price.
“You stay put,” the woman orders me, then jerks her head at her companion. The big guy walks forward to pull open my pack, then tip it over, and I wince as something inside clanks against a rock. The boy jumps, eyes flicking from me to the pack they’re searching and back.
“Please don’t,” I say quietly, risking a look straight at the boy for a moment.
The man rummaging through my pack only laughs, but I’m not talking about him banging my stuff against rocks. I’m speaking to the boy behind him, who’s standing by his gear now, looking back at me. If he bolts, I’m not going to last long enough to catch up with my expedition.
“What is this?” The big man’s holding up my set of picks and brushes, eyeing them with wary suspicion.
“It’s for, ah, cleaning the rocks.”
They both stare at me like I’m an idiot, and given they’re the ones stealing my possessions at gunpoint while I look on helplessly, it’s hard to argue with their assessment. “The tent,” I say. “You’ll like the tent, it’s fully automated.” My eyes flick up toward the boy, though it’s hard to tell for sure if he’s looking at me from behind his goggles. “Really surprising.”
The boy shifts his weight, silent, light on his feet. A step closer to the woman with the gun. He’s quick—he’s at least picked up some inkling of my half-baked plan.
The man fishes out the bright blue package holding my tent, turning it over in his hands. He looks up at me, brow creasing. Doesn’t look surprising, he’s clearly thinking.
“Pull on the orange tab there,” I say, standing a little straighter, sucking down a long lungful of air. Forcing my body to calm, be ready, like I do in the pool before a polo match. “Anaranjado.”
He nods, turning it over in his hands once more, finding the tab. Without further hesitation, he tugs on it, leaning down to see what will be revealed.
The tent unfurls in 2.6 seconds, just like the manufacturer promised, struts shooting out and snapping into place, the bright blue canopy exploding into being. A tent pole strikes the big guy across the nose and I dive for him, slamming his body into the ground with mine, winding both of us. I’m gasping for breath as I push myself up far enough to punch him, pain shooting up my knuckles to my shoulder as his head snaps back. Mehercule, I should’ve let Neal show me how to throw a punch without breaking my hand. But before I can turn, a deafening sound cracks somewhere above my head, echoing off the rock all around us to come rolling back again and again.
I scramble to my feet, just in time to see my opponent start to lunge after me—then stop dead only a few centimeters away. I gasp for breath and stumble back, expecting to see his partner leveling her weapon at me—instead I see her on the ground, unmoving, and the boy’s standing over her with the gun pointed at my assailant’s face.
Except it’s not a boy at all. Her helmet’s on the ground, a bit dented where she must’ve used it to bludgeon the woman beside it. “Nice one,” she pants, not taking her eyes from her target. She’s short, with pale, freckled skin and choppy black hair streaked with pink and blue. Now is not the time to stop and admire the view, though deus, she’s something else.
“Get his gun,” she’s saying, holding her own stolen weapon steady.
“His what?” I’m still staring at her, trying to process what’s going on.
“His gun, genius.” She nods at the pistol lying perhaps a meter away from the guy, who’s practically snarling with rage, but unwilling to risk getting shot. “Their buddies will have heard the shot. Now would be an excellent time to run like hell.”
I inch forward so the guy can’t grab me, then hook my foot around the
gun and pull it toward me. As I’m stooping to retrieve it, the girl’s voice goes harsher again as she orders the man, “Take your shoes off.”
“Shoes?” he repeats, brows raising.
“Zapatos,” I translate, though from the guy’s face it wasn’t the language barrier making him hesitate. Shoving the gun in my jacket pocket, I shoot my own curious glance her way. “May I ask why?”
“So they can’t follow us,” she replies. “Not quickly, anyway. Grab hers too, in case she wakes up.”
Clever. I reach down to pull the boots off the unconscious woman, who gives a tiny groan, but doesn’t wake. “Have you done this before?”
I earn myself a quirk of a smile from the girl. “I’m improvising. But I’ve been doing that my whole life. Shove the boots in your pack, let’s go.”
“If we can spare another half a minute, I’ve got an idea.” I jerk my chin toward the guy with his hands up. “Señor, quitarse los pantalones.”
Evidently the girl knows the Spanish word for trousers—she starts laughing as the man spits furious curses. “This is going to be ugly,” my new partner predicts, gesturing with the gun that the man should do as I’ve asked.
“I would imagine so,” I agree. “But it’ll be embarrassing, as well. They’ll have to lie to their friends, say we were big, strong, many in number. They won’t want to say a couple of teenagers did this. It might put the gang off trying to track us down.”
She hikes up one corner of her mouth, grudgingly impressed, and I tell my hormones to shut down the celebration—making her smile at me should not be my priority right now. Although it’s a lot more fun to think about than the guy who’s glaring furious daggers at me while pulling off his trousers. He kicks them toward me and I stuff them in my pack. With her gun still trained on him, the girl and I slowly back away from the clearing.
And then, once we’re far away enough, we run.
We scramble past a pile of boulders until we’re out of sight, then slither down into the nearest canyon, taking a path along the rubble at the bottom, where we won’t leave footsteps. We run until my lungs are burning, pain shooting along my ribs, throat contracting.
Eventually, we slow by unspoken consent when we reach a stream—I double over to rest my hands on my knees, gasping, and she drops to one knee to dip a hand into the water, scooping it up to splash it across her face. Then she cuts a look sideways at me, eyes dancing with unexpected amusement. Relief forces its way out of me in a quick huff of laughter, which sets her off. Snickering isn’t helping us recover, and the lower oxygen levels make running extremely ill-advised. I suppose I should be grateful to Gaia’s oceanic populations of hardy little cyanobacteria for what oxygen there is, because I definitely wouldn’t enjoy making this trek in a spacesuit. But it takes forever to catch my breath.
I fold down to sit beside her and spare my aching legs, leaning across to offer my hand. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I suppose you heard me say it before all the unpleasantries began, but I’m Jules.” I don’t add my fake last name this time. The lie of it would feel too slimy, when offered to a girl who just saved my life.
Something about my voice seems to amuse her, making her mouth twitch. “Jeez, Oxford.” She stares at my hand for a couple of beats, then leans across to slowly shake it, her palm warm against mine. “Nice to meet you.”
I’m trying not to show my surprise—I wouldn’t think she’d be able to tell where I’m from just by my accent. “Do I get to learn your name?”
I get the impression I’ve asked a much more personal question than I intended—she gazes at me, measuring, taking a long moment before she replies. “Amelia,” she says eventually. I hope that pause was her deciding not to lie. “Mia.”
“Well, I’m in your debt, Amelia.” I don’t ask for her last name. After all, she’s not getting mine.
She shrugs. “We can afford to rest a little. They’re not coming after us without shoes. Or pants.”
“Is it possible we just committed the first robbery in the history of Gaia? I mean, they tried first, but we succeeded.”
She just shakes her head as she stares at me, lips parted, breath still coming in heaves, skin smeared with dirt. I’m pretty sure I look just as bad. The last few days have been awful—my father’s face on the vid-call screen as he understood my coded hints about my plan, the swell of my own fear as I walked onto the shuttle that would bring me to Gaia, not to mention the attempted holdup we’ve just escaped—but I can’t deny that just now, despite it all, I feel alive.
In a few moments we’ll have to pull out our breathers and let our lungs have a break, not to mention make a plan to try and salvage this fiasco, but for now we’re still running on adrenaline.
And I’m not so sure about this planet, but I know I like this girl. Not having my expedition waiting for me—that’s a blow I almost can’t stop to think about now. But managing to run into someone who could help me in my mission…that’s lucky enough to give me hope.
The girl eyes me, scratching the underside of her chin with the butt of the scavenger’s gun. “Oxford?”
“Yes, Amelia?”
“You better not have been lying about that chocolate.”
Deus. I really like this girl.
DESPITE THE GUNS, DESPITE THE furious shouts and threats in two different languages trailing after us as we ran for it, despite the alien suns beating down on us and the thin air, I’m really not sure this guy fully gets the kind of danger we’re in.
I’m not sure I even get it.
But by the time we get far enough ahead of them to stop and take a break with our breathers, he’s grinning, whistling to himself in between breaths as he sorts through that monster of a pack he’s carrying, checking a few pieces of equipment for damage. We’ve had to stop sooner than I’d have liked, though we made it farther than I’d expected. He’s in better shape than he looks, under those brand-new khakis.
I pull my goggles back on, thumbing the dial on the side to switch them to a higher magnification, then scanning the canyon ridges behind us. I don’t see any sign of our friends back there, but that doesn’t mean we’re alone. True, we’d be easier to spot up in the desert with no cover. But we’d also be able to tell if we’d been spotted. Here, obscured by the twists and turns of the canyon, we’ll never be sure we’re not being watched.
I tug the goggles down to dangle around my neck and pull my breather mask away from my face. “I should get going.”
Jules pauses, looking up at me from where he’s inspecting a handful of pebbles, turning them this way and that, eyes so intent he might as well be reading from a tablet. His brows lift as he considers my words. “I?” he echoes. “Singular?”
He sounds like a Languages lecture from my old lesson screen, the one covered in scratches and graffitied doodles from the generations of students who had it before me. I glance up again at the ridge, then drop into a crouch so I’m not looming over him. “Yeah, why? You’ve got your people to catch up with, I’ve got my own thing. I appreciate the help,” I add, “but I’ve got to keep moving.”
Jules’s brows draw in—his face is so expressive, everything written there so clearly—as he considers that. “Well, I’m not entirely sure where I’m headed now,” he says. “That was the only rendezvous point I had, and my expedition clearly wasn’t there. If you don’t think your people would mind, perhaps I could accompany you to your expedition, and shelter there until the station’s overhead and I can call up for new coordinates?”
I find myself staring at him, torn between laughing at the sheer strangeness of this polite, put-together guy who’d be more at home in a library than in an alien desert, and saying yes just to see him smile that ridiculous smile again. He is charming. In an oh-god-he’s-gonna-get-his-head-blown-off kind of way. “Um. You want to come with me until you can call home?”
“Yes, would that be all right?”
I hesitate, scanning his features. There’s no sign of deception there, and if he were
savvy enough to fool me, I don’t think he’d have ambled, unarmed, into the middle of a standoff. Not without a better plan than “hit the dude with a tent,” anyway.
“I don’t have an expedition,” I say finally. “I’m here on my own.”
“You’re here alone?”
“I move faster on my own.” I hear the edge in my own voice, frustration at this detour coloring my tone before I can stop it.
Jules’s eyes flick back down to the pack. “I see. Can you think of any reason my expedition would have left without me?”
Yeah, about a dozen, Oxford.
I swallow that urge and try to keep my voice civil. I beat out dozens of scavvers to get this job with Mink, I spent eighteen hours crammed in a packing crate to hide from IA security on the shuttle, I’m tracking every scrap of food and water and time and air I’ve got and praying I make it—and this egghead ends up here with all the know-how of a rock. “Time is money,” I say finally. “And time is oxygen, come to that. You were probably late, and they figured you got cold feet or got caught up on the station.”
“I was a little late, but only by an hour or so. They would’ve waited for me.” He sounds pretty sure about that. “Maybe if I circle back, they’ll be there.”
“If they moved on, they’re not coming back. An hour or so here, racing against the other groups, is worth a lot more than one English guy in shiny boots, no matter what he’s paying them.”
He falls silent, digesting that, looking down at those boots of his. I’ve got no idea why someone like him is here; maybe he’s some rich private-school kid sticking it to his parents by taking an idiotic—albeit gutsy—joyride to the other end of the galaxy. Maybe he just bought his way into one of the scavver groups, and they took his money in advance and then left him here for the IA sweeps to pick up later. Of course, someone like him probably doesn’t have much to lose. Lawyers like he could afford would probably have him out of one of the International Alliance’s prison cells in a snap.
