“Hmm? Ah, yes, thank you.” The Doc pushes his chipped specs back up his nose, fiddling with the cuffs of his threadbare sweater. “Just... just a little short on supplies today.”
His disgruntled customers begin to disperse. He nips back into his surgery, pulling out a sign and a piece of chalk. He scrawls a note quickly: no medicine, some treatment still available.
Doc's going to have angry customers all day, wanting things he simply does not have. Guy must be desperate.
“I can check out our herb garden, if you like?” I suggest. Doc can't offer much in return for Mi's cuttings, but it never hurts to have someone owe you a favour.
“I need more than just plants, I'm afraid,” he returns. His voice is barely more than a whisper. He looks tired and grey, in need of a doctor himself. “There's been another outbreak of the pax,” he says, virtually inaudibly.
Even I tense at this. Thanks to the altered DNA flowing through me, myself and my little crew appear to be immune to this particular strain. Years ago, following the wars, when mankind was already struggling to survive, the pax reared its ugly head for the first time. The disease starts off with typical flu-like symptoms, but then a purplish rash appears. Your limbs harden, your lungs turn to iron, and your body basically calcifies over a period of a couple of weeks. You feel all of it, but you won't be able to scream.
Supposedly, the pax is the reason Luca has a wall and a terminal city in the first place. The slums were where they sent the sick to die. At least, that's how it started. Then it became the place they dumped their criminals, or those too sick to work, or those they simply didn't... like to see.
Baz came from Luca. He was one of their merchants, a chef. Then he lost his hand in an accident and was suddenly deemed “unfit to work” –a crime punishable by exile. It's the most Institute thing about the outside world: only the strong can live within the sacred walls. Only it's not the strong, it's the pretty. Lucans hate anything that doesn't fit into their concept of beauty.
Theoretically, the pax should have wiped out the world by now. It's pretty darn contagious, but luckily, only after the rash begins to spread. That usually leaves everyone with enough time to sweep off the sufferer to a distant part of the slum, where they'll die in the street, or, if they're lucky, the old community hall set up as a quasi-hospital. It's mostly run by sufferers, but those early on in the throws of the disease. No one else will risk it, apart from maybe their loved ones. Mi wanted to volunteer, but I told him someone was bound to notice his immunity at some point. We couldn't risk that kind of exposure.
“Well, that bites,” I say. “Let us know if you need anything?” I offer, really hoping he doesn't.
“I thank you, Ashe, but I'm hoping... I'm sure my supplies were merely delayed.”
“You were expecting something?” Proper medicine is rare in these parts. I mean, super rare. I've never seen Doc have much more than herbs, bandages, and the occasional bottle of antibiotics, which will sell for a steal to the right buyer. I've fenced a few in my time.
“Yes, I have a, er, contact...” His eyes dart somewhere behind me, and then hurriedly at the floor. I don't need to follow his gaze; I know where he was looking. Doc's friends with the Phoenix crew. No surprise, really– how else would he stay in business?
I've always thought of the members as ragged orphans, little more than pickpockets, but it occurs to me that if they manage to bomb Luca every now and again, they're probably fairly well equipped. Equipped enough to have gear, and weapons...
It's got to be a coincidence, right? There's no way that box contained medicine– which is surely in abundance in the city? It couldn't be that I'd stolen the Doc's shipment?
I'm going to regret this. “Hey, Doc, this shipment you were expecting. How big was it?”
“Um, not too big,” he says absent-mindedly, trying to tidy up his chalk scrawls. “But probably in one of those new heavy anti-theft containers. There's a new drug in there that's worth a small fortune.”
“Right...” I say. My insides twist. Life would be so much easier if I could rid myself of any form of guilt whatsoever.
“Why do you ask? Do you think you've seen it?”
“I just... I'll keep my eye out for it. Next time I'm running an errand.”
“Thanks, Ashe. I appreciate it.”
“No problem, Doc.” It really isn't.
He gives me a watery smile, and steps back inside. I stand in the street for a few moments longer, before slowly making my way back home.
Chapter 6
I mean, it's not really my fault. I didn't know what the package was for. And if I hadn't shown up those Phoenix guys would probably be dead, and Doc still wouldn't have his supplies. And if, by some miracle, they'd survived and escaped with the loot, the Doc indicated it was for pax patients. They're going to die anyway.
Slowly, and in pain.
Sometimes, for fragments of seconds, I wish I'd never escaped from the Institute. Eve wouldn't have felt guilty. Eve knew only the strong survived. Eve was fearless. Ashe was weak and stupid and–
Eve was also a weapon, and I prefer being human, even when it brings conundrums like this.
I am silent for the rest of the day, casting the occasional non-committal sound in Ben's direction when he chatters non-stop about school, grunting my approval at whatever Mi has rustled up for dinner. Abi puts Ben to bed tonight; she must be able to sense something is amiss. It is only when things fall silent that Mi turns to me and asks what happened, and I spill my guts.
He listens carefully, nods attentively, and only speaks after I've finished. “So,” he says, “what are you going to do?”
“What can I do?” I reason, “I can't exactly steal them back–”
“Do you know where they've gone?”
“Abe's warehouse. I've dropped stuff off there before. But if I take it back, he's gonna think for sure it's me, he knows my style by now. We need his jobs–”
“So, you do nothing, and people die because of it?”
“I mean, they were going to die anyway...”
Mi lowers his eyebrows. For a blind guy, he can really stare right through you. “Have you considered a third option?”
“No, but I'm all ears.”
“What if you could get someone to steal it for you?”
“Are you offering?”
Mi glares even harder. “The two guys who tried to steal it to begin with. You think they're part of Phoenix?”
“Makes the most sense, but they aren't exactly the easiest people to get hold of.”
“Doc Herb knows how to find them.”
I cringe guiltily. Going back to the Doc means probably admitting I was involved in the theft in the first place, and as much as I might pretend I don't care what people think about me... the Doc's an exception. I could kid myself and say it's because he's a useful ally, but at the end of the day... the Doc's a good person who thinks well of me. I don't have many of those in my life.
“Ashe?”
I get up and grab my boots before I can reconsider. “You win, Mr Conscience, you win.”
Mi smiles. “Stay safe.”
“Always do.”
“No you don't.”
Well, I always try. And I'm not planning on doing anything dangerous tonight, just delivering a message. They can do whatever they want with it after that point, and I won't have to be responsible.
The light is still on at the surgery when I arrive. I can see the Doc through the window. There's a net curtain for privacy but my eyes are pretty good at seeing through it. The Doc's cleaning up for the day, sterilising his instruments and... bandaging his own arm. Guess even doctors can be clumsy. I rap lightly on the door. He jumps up and scuttles towards it.
“Ashe?” he frowns. He must be used to the occasional late night visitor, in desperate need of his help. But it's never been me before. We don't get sick. He unbolts the door hurriedly. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” I say shortly. “Do you mind i
f I come in?”
“Now isn't the best...” His eyes dart back to the desk. What is he hiding?
“It's about the supplies.”
“Ah,” he softens slightly, “Very well. Come in then.”
He moves aside, and I slip in. His surgery is nothing like the ones I grew up with. Everything is worn, from the stuffing in his chair to the cracks in the plaster, and it's full of books and towels and jars of herbs. Our labs were pristine and clinical. I can tell you which one I'd prefer to be poked in, however.
“I think I know where your supplies are,” I say quickly.
I wait for him to ask how, but he does not. “I see,” he says. “Where?”
“A warehouse near the wall. I doubt they'll be there for much longer. I need to let your contacts know where they are, as soon as possible.”
“I can pass the message on,” he insists, “if you draw me a map–”
“They should probably go tonight.”
“Ashe,” he says softly, “I want that shipment. I really do. But I cannot give you their names, or their whereabouts.”
“Then they're as good as lost.”
The Doc sighs. The clock on his mantelpiece ticks loudly. “I tell you what,” he starts, “there's a chance they may be by in about an hour. They said they were going to try and find me something to offer my patients. If you wait in the alley at the back... then I can say I've kept my word, but you can tell them all you know.”
This is probably the best that I can hope for, although I don't relish the idea of chilling out on a rooftop for an hour, especially with no guarantees. But for some stupid reason, my conscience won't excuse me, and before I know it I'm secreted at the top of a rickety old fire escape composed almost entirely of rust.
The things I do for this city.
Years of training and biological programming have made it so I can stay focused for long periods of time, and I don't feel the effects of the cold as much as others might. Boredom, however, is an innately human quality that I haven't been able to shake, and even super-humans will get a sore butt after sitting on it for an hour with nothing to do except write out the address of Abe's warehouse.
Even at night, there's no such thing as quiet in the slums. There's always something happening, somewhere. A siren far-off, a Lucan raid. Drunken labourers stumbling about, local women of the night peddling their wares. A couple argue in the next street over. She thinks he's cheating on her. I can hear every word, if I want to. I can hear nothing, too. I have complete control of my senses. I'd go mad, otherwise. Some of the others did.
Finally, blissfully, I see two men approach the Doc's door. They look perfectly ordinary. Bundled up against the cold, but casually dressed. Not like the guys last night–
Except, they are the guys last night. A little harder to identify without their gear, but definitely the same two. Nick and... Pilot, was it? Great. I wonder if they'll believe my sudden change of heart?
I watch as they pass a small bundle of rags to the Doc. He looks very grateful, but I can tell by the way the package is held that not much is there. Probably just bandages, maybe some pills if he's lucky. He mutters a quick thanks, they apologise for not having much more, and the Doc's eyes glance upwards as if searching for me. Now there goes a man who can't keep a secret, but the other two don't seem to notice. They say goodbye and turn around.
I drop down several stories and land neatly in front of them. Pilot shrieks and stumbles back.
“Glad to see you back on your feet,” I tease.
“You!” he hisses.
Nick is trying very hard not to grin as he pulls his comrade to his feet. “Smooth, bro.”
“It's her!”
“I've got eyes.”
I joked last night about him being cute, but it's more noticeable now in the lamp light, and when he's trying not to smile. He's got tousled, dark blond hair, high cheekbones and a certain... glint in his eye that is hard to easily define.
“Look,” I interrupt, “I'm gonna level with you. I'm sorry I stole what you were trying to steal. Your need was clearly greater than mine. But I think I know where it's being kept, if you want to try and commandeer it again.”
“How do we know this isn't a trap?” Pilot narrows his eyes.
“Guess you don't. But there's not really anything in it for me. And if you need the supplies so badly, you'll risk it anyway.”
“Why don't you just steal it back?”
“I don't want my contact getting suspicious. It needs to be someone very clearly not me.”
“And who are you, exactly?”
It's Nick this time, his head slightly tilted, staring at me like I'm some great cosmic puzzle. I can't work out if I like it or not. He's not scared of me, he's not repulsed by me. He's not creepily undressing me with his eyes. He's just... intrigued?
I've never been that fabulous at reading emotions. This was something I was tested on, at great length. I get the basics right. Motivations though, more subtle things... they allude me like smoke on water.
“I'm... just a concerned citizen, trying to get by.” I reach into my jacket pocket and retrieve the folded piece of paper with the address on. I hold it out. “This is the place. Take it or leave it.”
Nick reaches to take it, but Pilot grabs his arm. “I don't buy it. We should get out of here.”
“Probably,” Nick agrees, “but we do need those supplies. Thanks for the intel.” He takes my scrap, holding my gaze as he does so. “We'll take it from here.”
“You should go tonight,” I advise. “My contact never keeps hot stuff around for long. Too risky.”
“We'll evaluate all our options,” Nick assures me. “Thank you.”
I nod, not sure what else to say, and leap back onto the fire escape. I'm on the roof by the time they start to move, and quickly too. They race around the corner to an old van.
“We're going now?” Pilot whispers.
“You heard her. We need to act quickly. We'll radio for back-up.”
“Nick, this is not how we do things!”
“I won't do anything risky.”
“Like I believe that.”
I didn't tell them that Abe's warehouse would be guarded by Lucans. I didn't tell them that they'd be better armed and better equipped than the first place I took them from. Unless their van was stocked with gear, they'd be going in utterly defenceless. They could be killed.
The van starts to speed off into the night, and despite my better judgement, I'm already leaping onto the next roof, following them.
Chapter 7
I lose track of the van at one point, once we get out of the windier streets and the roads get straighter. I'm fast –I can clock forty mile an hour at my top speed– but not for long periods and a van can top that anyway. Luckily, I know where they're heading, and no one has stormed anything by the time I show up.
Wisely, they park their van a few streets away and walk the rest of the distance. The warehouse backs onto Luca's wall. I strongly suspect it has direct access through a sewer or vent or some other backwards channel, because a lot goes in that never seems to come out, and there are a lot more guards than there should be for a mere smuggling operation. If Lucans are involved, it's about keeping us separated, and them rich.
As I anticipated, it's closely guarded. There are two at the door, and another above on a walkway, dressed in black and trying to blend in. They don't want anyone to know there's anything too important inside, but my eyes catch a couple of flashlights darting about through the windows. That's at least five, probably more. What will our interlopers' tactic be?
Their tactic appears to be to wait for back-up, another smart move. Within a few minutes, a girl arrives on a motorbike. She's dressed like a typical lady of the night, in tight dress with fishnet stockings, but she carries herself more like a soldier. She looks a little uncomfortable in the heels. They converse quietly below me, but I can hear every word. They're wondering if they should wait for any others, but the girl –I think
they call her Scarlet– says no one is close by, and time is of the essence. Nick looks at her sheepishly, glancing at her outfit.
“Plan 7?”
She sighs, but nods, and totters out of the alleyway on her ridiculous heels, a great beaming smile plastered across her face. Nick and his companion dart off in different directions.
Scarlet catches the eyes of the guards. One immediately goes for his gun, pointing it in her direction and yelling. The other holds up his arm and moves towards her, grinning. He's still telling her she needs to move away, but he doesn't see her as a threat.
This is his mistake.
Pilot kicks over a nearby bin. The guards immediately turn towards him, giving Nick enough time to sneak up behind the one with a gun and Scarlet enough time to disarm her, ahem, admirer. He's utterly bewildered when she turns the weapon on him and smashes his face with it.
Unfortunately, none of them notice the guard on the walkway until he starts shooting.
All three immediately flatten themselves against the wall. The guard rains down a hail of bullets, but there’s no way he can reach them at this angle. It doesn’t matter; in a matter of seconds, others will storm through the main entrance. They will be standing right in their line of fire, no more than fish in a barrel.
They are going to die, and I only have a few split seconds to alter this possibility.
Don’t do it, Ashe, says the grounded, rational, cold part of me. It’s too dangerous. They should have been more careful. It’s on them, it’s on them...
But they wouldn’t be here if not because of me, I argue back, and does it really matter? Will you sleep easy tonight knowing you could have saved them?
I sigh, mentally kicking myself, and move back a few paces to give myself a running jump.
The guard is still shooting blindly, but he jerks around when he registers my presence and fires in my direction. Bullets streak the air beside me. One catches my side, but I can't stop. My grip fastens around the muzzle of his rifle, pushing it to the ground. My other fist circles to his face. He hits the decking, and a second later I swing his weapon into his temple and down him.
The Phoenix Project: Book I: Flight Page 3
