The Disasters

by M. K. England

  Asra is absorbed in her tablet, hopefully monitoring the cameras she hacked in and around Jace’s warehouse. We’re all dressed in dark colors like thieves from some ridiculous cop vid, but hey, it’s practical for a night heist.

  I walk up and peer over Asra’s shoulder at the tablet screen. “How are things looking over there?”

  “As we expected, so far,” she says, her voice far calmer than mine sounded. “Two guards outside the door, and no one in the warehouse. Two guards on the roof. Jace is staying at his other house in New Dhaka tonight. The ship’s crew left together as soon as their cargo was unloaded, and I haven’t seen them return yet, which is perfect for us. Hopefully they won’t come back until we’re long gone.”

  “We can only hope,” I say. Asra glances at me, then her gaze slides away. The others are doing the same. No one will meet my eye. Something ugly rises in my chest.

  “Okay, what?” I snap, sharper than I meant it. “Is it just the facechanger, or nerves, or are you all having second thoughts? This is our last chance to talk about it, so make with the touchy-feely share time, people.”

  That earns a few snickers, and Case’s eyes flick up to mine for a brief second. “I’m just nervous,” she says, “but also that face is weirding me out. The other face is better. Your face, I mean.”

  I snort. Two in a row, score. Unless I’m so hideous now that anything would be better. Why am I thinking about this? Time and place, like Zee said. I shake my head a little, like I can physically clear out the distracting thoughts, and take a breath to ease the tension from my chest. “Okay, everyone. If this goes down according to plan, we’ll be in the air in about ten minutes. Are you ready?”

  Zee is calm and put-together as always; she even managed to borrow some eyeliner to get back her trademark look. Asra practically vibrates with the nearness of her goal. Rion and Case avoid each other’s eyes, though, and I sigh internally. I wish we could go into this with complete trust between us all, but we can’t put it off until folks get over their issues. Even I can’t shake the tiny seed of doubt—is Case really as okay with this as she claims? Is she ready to commit a premeditated crime?

  But ready or not, the time is now.

  Asra stashes her tablet and looks around the circle, lingering on each of us. “Thank you for trusting me. I know it probably doesn’t seem like it, but you all are saving me right now. I appreciate it.”

  My stomach lurches, but I manage a nod and a half smile. “I hope you’ll forgive us if we wait to say you’re welcome until we actually manage to pull this off.”

  After all, I have to successfully pilot us out of here before we can pat ourselves on the back. I breathe through the stab of fear to my heart and force some pep into my voice.

  “Okay, people, let’s get this party started. Rion, you’re with me. Everyone else, Asra will lead you in once we’ve distracted the guards.” I pause, my lips pursed. Saying good luck seems dangerous. What was it the theater kids used to say?

  “Break a leg, everyone. We’ll see you on the other side.”

  Thirty seconds ago, I felt brave and leaderly and profound. Now I feel profoundly stupid. Every step toward the compound is like walking into a pit of quicksand, merrily letting it draw me down and crush the air from my lungs and—

  Rion and I pass through the open gate in the outer wall around Jace’s compound, and there are the guards: tall, muscular, and angry looking. Rion’s gait doesn’t falter; it’s relaxed and casual, and his breathing stays completely steady. He has some nerve. His diplomat act is unbreakable, but I guess it would have to be, interning with politicians all the time. He strides smoothly forward, as confident in his surroundings as the people we’re impersonating would be.

  We’ve been over this plan a hundred times by now. I should really be more chill than this, like him. I try to force my shoulders to uncoil, let my arms dangle and swing naturally at my sides. Am I swinging too much? How do I normally walk? What do I do with my hands when I walk?

  My chem gun presses against the small of my back, cold and hard on my spine. I hope it doesn’t somehow fire. It’s only sleep chem, but I can’t help the irrational fear of blowing my own ass off with one wrong step. I’ve only fired a gun a handful of times on Earth, under very controlled conditions and with lots of safety equipment. Then, once in the stairwell at Nani’s, at an already unconscious enforcer. This is so, so different. And this walk is taking forever. It’s only fifty feet from the main gate to the two guards, but I feel like I’m aging a year for every step we take, past stacked crates, empty load lifters, and broken-down pallets.

  The guards snap to tense alertness once we cross the property line, their hands resting on the sidearms at their belts. I’ll take it as a positive sign that they haven’t drawn them yet; they must be buying our act for now. Shitshitshit, we’re there, we’re stopping, and my mouth has gone dry, and—

  “Delivery from Ms. Begum, right on schedule,” Rion says, his voice bored and sarcastically cheerful. Confident. Perfectly on script. How does he do that? He unshoulders his bag slowly, but the guys don’t make a move.

  “What happened to the other two guys? What are their names, Ravi and Sudeepta? Something like that?” the guard on the left asks. He scratches one terrifically bushy eyebrow, his body language relaxing with practiced ease. His eyes are anything but casual. This is a test.

  “Rabi and Nirjar. Not even close on that last one, mate,” Rion says, still cool. How can he do this without a single tremor in his voice? I always heard that politicians could smell fear, so maybe his diplomatic training just happens to lend itself incredibly well to crime. “They’re out on another job tonight. Boss decided we could handle making the delivery this week, and if we manage not to screw up, we might even be your new regulars.”

  Or Asra bribed them to clear off for the night, but you know, close enough.

  Rion lets a little grin twist his unfamiliar lips, like he’s letting the guards in on a joke. I try to mimic him, raising an eyebrow for effect.

  The guard on the right looks straight at me, then over to Rion. “Your friend here ever speak?” he asks.

  “Nah,” I say with a small chuff of a laugh. May as well play off what everyone’s been telling me. “No one wants to hear what my ugly face has to say.”

  The second guard lets out a surprised laugh, his professional cool relaxing somewhat. “You got that right, friend. That is one unfortunate mug you’re sporting there.”

  “Hey, that’s my momma’s face you’re insulting!” Gotta draw this joke out as long as I can. In my head, I’m calculating: Where are the others now? Are they across the lot yet? Have they disabled the camera yet? My eyes flick unconsciously up to the camera over guard number two’s head; the light is still burning steady green. Shit.

  The guard follows the direction of my gaze, and his eyes harden again. “All right, gents, I think that’s enough of that. Hand over the payment, we’ll count it, and if it’s all there, then you can go back to your boss and tell her that you were good little delivery boys.”

  Rion’s expression twists into confusion, and for a second I start to panic. Does he not know what to say next? Is it time to start shooting?

  But it’s all part of the act, of course. He has this under control. Can’t help it—I’m damn impressed.

  “We don’t deliver to someone inside?” Rion says, letting his brows furrow. “I thought Nirjar said we were supposed to deliver to Mr. Patel, the warehouse guy? Or is he the accountant?” He looks to me, as if to verify his memory of the delivery instructions. I play along, biting my lip in uncertainty.

  “I . . . think he said the warehouse guy. Is that not right?” I say, turning to the guard on the left. No good, no good, I’m the worst liar ever—his hand is back on his sidearm, and he’s popped the safety off.

  “No, that’s not right,” he says, voice low. “You have ten seconds to hand over the money.” The second guard follows suit, drawing his gun out of its holster.

 
“Whoa, whoa, lads, no need for all that!” Rion protests, sliding the last brown strap off his shoulder. “Just a little bit of misinformation, some lines of communication crossed, no big deal. We’re giving you the money right now, okay? How do you want to do this? Should I hand you the bag? Put it on the ground? Should I take the money out and hand only that to you?”

  Rion has a skill for babbling, it seems, because he’s drawing this out longer and longer and we still aren’t dead, but it can’t stay that way for long. Maybe I should shoot first. My heart is hammering so hard it sounds like a kick drum of pulsing blood inside my ears, playing some ridiculously fast, angry electronica beat. I discreetly wipe my palms on my pant legs. No way I’ll be able to grab a gun with the Amazon River gushing down my hands.

  I see the moment they make the decision. The guards’ eyes meet for the smallest fraction of a second, and god, this is going to all go sideways before we even get inside, before we even get close. Forget about the rooftop problems, because there’s the fffwissh sound of metal on leather and guns in my face and a gun in my hand, and I’m diving to the side—

  No, the guard is falling to the side, Zee’s boot firmly lodged in his right kidney. They’re here. And with that realization, time moves again, and my head clears. I whip my gun around to find the guard on the left, just in time to see Rion fire. The guard crumples to the ground.

  I swing back, aiming at the guard on the right again and, by sheer luck, land a chem splatter on his cheek. It seeps in through his skin barely a second later, and its soporific effects are instantaneous. His hands, clutching at his side where Zee kicked him, relax and fall to the ground. The camera—yes, the little light is burning red now. Asra and Case jog up, and Asra wastes no time waving her tablet at the lock pad beside the door. It hums, and the door emits a soft click. She yanks the door open and waves us in, the impatience of the gesture betraying the cracks in her calm.

  Case steps through the door first, her chem gun held awkwardly in front of her. She hadn’t wanted to carry a gun at all, but I insisted. Even without any training, even without ever having fired one, it’s better to have it just in case. It’s nonlethal, so what’s the worst that could happen?

  Zee darts through the door next, running flat out toward her designated target: the weapons storage area. And damn is she fast. I would have loved to see her on the soccer pitch—I bet she was a star. She’ll be much slower on the way back with a box of grenades in her hands, though. And I thought running with scissors was bad.

  I go in next, then Rion, and Asra pulls the door shut behind us. Case leads us with sure movements, muttering turn-by-turn directions to herself as she rounds corners without hesitation. A right, then a left down a row of foodstuffs, then another right, and there’s the freight elevator. Next to it are fuel containers and ship ammunition crates, just as Asra said—except they aren’t preloaded on carts like they’re supposed to be, ready for tomorrow’s shipment. Because the carts aren’t there. At all.

  Balls.

  The fuel is stored in a huge metal cylinder that comes up to my stomach, with two thin silver handles sticking out on either side. I grab the handles and heave, but damn, this thing is heavy as a brick of lead. It doesn’t even budge. I try an underhanded grip and heave again, but it’s useless.

  “I can try to find a cart,” Case begins, but I cut her off with a gesture.

  “No time,” I say. “Call the elevator. We’ll roll it on there and deal with it when we get to the top. Rion, can you lift at least one of the ammo crates?”

  Rion replies by crouching down, wrapping his arms around the crate, and lifting from his knees. He nearly topples over, his groan telling me just how heavy is.

  “It’s awkward to get hold of, but I got it. Tell me you’ve already called the lift.”

  A pleasant-sounding chime punctuates his sentence, and the elevator doors slide smoothly open. Asra leaps forward to hold the doors open while Rion staggers inside, bracing himself against one wall to ease the strain. He’s sweating and breathing hard through his nose, but his arms are steady. Still, better hurry.

  “Help me with this,” I say, waving Case over. “Tip it toward me and we’ll roll it.”

  It takes a few seconds of rocking, but eventually the cylinder tips onto its bottom edge. It’s heavy even with the ground taking the brunt of the weight, and it’s hard as hell to control. I roll it right past the door on the first try. I have to rock it back and forth in several small crescents to get it in, but eventually a bumpbump vibrates through the handle as the cylinder glides over the door track. I’m in. With the fuel tank still braced against my right side, I wave Asra away and mash the level-four button inside the elevator.

  “Get up the stairs and blow the guard quarters the second Zee gets back!” I yell as the doors start to close. “I’m gonna be pissed if a bunch of reinforcements show up on the roof!”

  Just before the doors seal shut, an echoing boom cracks the air: an explosion. Like a grenade going off.

  “Zee!” I nearly drop the cylinder as I lunge for the doors, but it’s too late. My hands scrabble at the seam, but the elevator is already moving, and oh god, if something went wrong, we’re going to be on that rooftop alone. They were supposed to take out the reinforcements, blow the stairwell, but . . .

  “Rion,” I gasp, my breath coming hard and fast. My lungs burn, though whether from exertion or fear, I don’t know. I rock once, twice, then let the fuel container fall back to a flat sitting position. My arms feel like they’re floating without the weight. “Rion, put down the crate, forget the ammo. If the others got in trouble, we’re going to have to take on the rooftop guards alone. Put down the crate and get out your gun, man. Do it.”

  He lowers the crate as gently as he can in the cramped space of the featureless steel elevator, though it still drops the last few inches with a thump that makes me cringe away from it. Munitions are not a great thing to drop. It doesn’t explode, thankfully, so I draw my gun with my left hand and Rion draws his with his right, and we press our bodies together in front of the door, ready to charge.

  “No hesitation. Run straight at them, shoot as soon as you have an angle, then find cover to finish it. We have to get back to help the others.” I give Rion’s shoulder a nudge as the elevator chimes its warning. “I bet your dad would flip if he saw you right now.”

  He glances over and flashes his killer grin. “You know just how to sweet-talk me.”

  Then the doors slide open, and we charge.

  Eleven

  DING!

  Two guards turn their heads lazily toward the elevator, probably expecting the ship’s crew back from the bar, legless and happy. What they get is two reckless guys charging at them with chem guns spitting. My first shots go wide, which gives my target plenty of time to draw her gun and take cover around the ship’s curved underbelly.

  At the first pop, muscle memory takes over and I drop to the ground, roll—this is twice now in a few days’ time I’ve been shot at. Not just by a chem gun or a jolter, but a real gun with real bullets that will really kill me on the spot. I want to look over, want to check on Rion, but I need cover, need to hit my target so we can check on Zee and the other—

  Pop pop pop!

  “Aaugh!”

  Oh god, Rion.

  Cold horror seizes my chest, knocks the breath from my lungs. I throw myself behind a stack of supply crates, my head swimming with adrenaline and pure fear. I chance a look in Rion’s direction. He’s pressed against a small electric cargo hauler, one bloody hand clutching—his shoulder? His chest? Was he hit in the chest? Oh my god, please not Rion, please! He fires wildly, his injured side propped up on a crate for stability, but his shots do little more than distract the second guard.

  A bullet pings off the metal of my hiding spot, and I sink lower, pressing the heel of my hand into my forehead. I can’t breathe. This isn’t going to work. I can’t just hide here and let them walk over and shoot me. The erratic fire from Rion’s hiding pla
ce has slowed—is he losing consciousness? I have to do something. I have to get to Rion. I have to get to Zee. I have to do this. No time to sit and think and plan.

  I take a breath. Another. Move into a crouch. Check the chem levels in my gun—half gone already; god. I can do this. Count backward, three . . . two . . . one!

  I explode from my crouch and sprint toward the ship, angling around to where my original target has taken cover. She’s waiting for me, has me sighted down her barrel, but I throw myself to the left, then again, then to the right, moving forward all the while, building momentum. The guard’s eyes go wide and her eyebrows climb. She’s figured it out: I’m not planning to stop. Full-on bull rush, with all my athlete’s speed behind it. She changes her stance to deal with the close range, sights down her gun barrel again, and bang!

  God, I should be dead, should have hot blood pumping from a hole in my chest. Maybe I am. Maybe I just haven’t felt it yet, but as soon as her finger moves I’m on the ground, my finger tight on the trigger, a steady stream of chem pods firing wildly, and—

  A tiny splatter of green appears on the underside of her chin. She tumbles to the ground.

  I want to stay right where I am, just lie down and be still. My body is already protesting, telling me I’ve done enough, but all I can see in my mind is Rion, the blood pouring over his hand, his face crumpled in pain. His shots stopped at some point. What if he’s dead? I charge back around the ship, angling for Rion’s cover, and then WHAM! The ground slams into my face, or I slam into it, and before I can process the fact that I’m horizontal again, a gun barrel presses hard against the back of my head.