by Rob Boffard
“Anyway,” he says. “Eric keeps scouts in the field. They get food, supplies, report back whenever Nomads move through the area. They get close, Eric locks the hospital down. Haven’t been discovered yet.”
He sees my expression of disbelief. “Oh, they’ve been in the building plenty of times, but they never managed to get into the basement.”
I shudder. I had to get the wound in my thigh cleaned, didn’t have a choice, but I’m appalled at the destruction I nearly brought down on Eric and his people. No wonder he wants me out of here.
Eric leads us to the far end. There’s a tiny space, in the shadow of the giant concrete ramp, separated from the rest of the floor by scarred metal plates that look as if they were cut from something much larger, then propped up so they form a vertical barrier. There’s a gap in the plates, guarded by another man with another gun. He starts when he sees us, but Eric waves us through and he relaxes.
I take in the space. A bent and twisted table, its surface empty, balanced on wobbly legs. Two straight-backed metal chairs. A duffel bag squats under the table, clothes spilling out of a half-open zip. There’s a cot in the corner, a faded mattress on top of it. No blanket or pillow. The only decoration is on one of the walls: a map, like Harlan’s, but in even worse condition. It doesn’t show as much land mass, just what looks like the surrounding area. Printed on the map, running in large, spaced-out letters, are the words: THE YUKON.
“Stay here,” Eric says. “Both of you. I’ll get Finkler.”
He steps out through the gap between the plates, and I see the guard slide into place, blocking off the exit.
“Harlan,” I say. “Where would this seaplane be? The working one?”
“Goddamn fool,” Harlan says, staring at the door. “Always was stubborn. That’s what I liked about him. Even back when—”
“Harlan.”
“Kind of hard to say.” He saunters up to the map, running his finger along it. After a moment, he taps a segment on it where the brown land gives way to a splodge of blue. “My guess is Fish Lake.”
I blink. It takes me a second to dredge up the meaning of the word lake. The idea of a body of water that size is almost impossible to imagine.
“I was on the north shore few months ago, spotted smoke,” he says. “Got a look through my binocs–seemed like they set up a camp of some kind.” He shrugs. “Weren’t no seaplane there, though. Not then, anyway.”
“I thought you said the Nomads moved around?” I say.
“They do. Camp might’ve been temporary. But if I was a Nomad with a seaplane around these parts, Fish Lake’d be the place I’d land it.”
“OK,” I say, studying the map. I spot Whitehorse, and nearly scream with joy–it’s close to the lake, no more than a few miles on the map. I could get there soon. I could get there today.
“And they can get to Anchorage?” I say, trying to stay calm, tracing across the map with my finger. The paper feels slightly damp under my fingertip. “They can fly that far?”
“Range-wise? Sure. Assuming they’ve got enough fuel. And assuming they’re even there in the first place. Nomads aren’t exactly predictable.”
My finger touches the edge of the map, right on the border with Alaska–and that’s when my heart sinks.
I need someone to fly the plane. It’s all too easy to picture it coming down on the water–if the angle’s off, even a little bit, it would flip right over the second it touched the surface.
“The Nomads’ll have a pilot, right?” I say, more to myself than to anyone else. Of course they’ll have one–they couldn’t fly the plane otherwise. I’ll have to get hold of that pilot, convince them to get me airborne. I don’t have the first clue how I’m going to do that, but it’s a start.
Eric returns, entering the room without looking at us. “Where’s Finkler?” I say.
“He’ll be here in a minute,” Eric says, crossing around the other side of the table, dropping heavily onto one of the chairs. The metal frame protests, scraping across the concrete floor.
Harlan shakes his head, incredulous. “You know, I can’t believe you, E,” says Harlan. “You’ve been wanting to get in the air your whole life, and you just leave a damn seaplane sitting there?”
“What?” I say, turning away from the map. Surely I didn’t hear that right. “You can fly a plane?”
Harlan and Eric glance at each other, for just a split second, and something passes between them. I don’t even think they know they’ve done it.
“I can’t fly a plane,” Eric says.
“Sure you can,” says Harlan. He turns to me. “We grew up in the same bunker together. I always remember he had this book–about how planes work? Engine diagrams, things like that. He read it a thousand times, always talking about how he was gonna learn to fly one day.”
“Harlan, if you say one more word—”
“Well, sorry, E, but it’s kind of obvious now, isn’t it?” Harlan says, annoyed. My eyes drift to the logo on Eric’s jacket. ROYAL CANADIAN AIRFORCE.
Eric sees me looking. “You want to know why I haven’t gone up there?” he says. “Because I’d just get myself and my people killed. We’re doing just fine here, and we don’t need to risk everything we’ve built for a goddamn seaplane.”
I turn back to the map, studying it, buying myself some time to think.
Assuming the plane is still there, then somehow convincing a Nomad pilot to help me without getting captured or killed–when I don’t know the terrain and all I have is Harlan’s rifle and no bullets–is going to be next to impossible. There’s an easier way, and he’s sitting right in front of me, still arguing with Harlan.
Except it isn’t easier. Because even if Eric has enough knowledge to fly a plane, I don’t have the faintest idea how I’m going to convince him to help me. I don’t have a single thing to offer him. Asking for more, after what happened last night? I might as well demand that Harlan pull a teleportation device out of his back pocket.
And that’s when the anger comes back. I know what I’m asking is too much, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to scream at Eric, to grab him and make him take me to the plane. The existence of the seaplane ignited a bright, burning hope inside me, but now that hope is fading, and the anger is in its place, dark and hot. With it comes the voice inside me, speaking quietly, insistently, telling me what I have to do.
There’s only one way I’m going to convince Eric to help me. And I don’t like it one bit.
I close my eyes. Then I turn back to Eric, folding my arms. “I’m going to Fish Lake. I’m taking that seaplane. If you’re too scared to come with me, that’s fine.”
Eric is shrugging off his coat, pulling on a tattered sweater. I catch a knowing smile just before he pulls it over his head. “Nice try,” he says, when he re-emerges.
I take a step closer. “Because you are scared, aren’t you? That’s why you’re in here, right? That’s why you hide every time the Nomads come by. You don’t want to fight them.”
“Careful,” Eric says. But he doesn’t look at me when he says it, and I hear the voice again: keep pushing.
“Must be nice,” I say, and the spite in my voice shocks me. “Hiding out here while the rest of the world goes to shit.”
“Come on, that is not—” Harlan says.
I cut him off. “This is a sweet hole in the ground,” I say, spreading my arms wide. “But it’s still just a hole. At least the Nomads have the guts to survive on the outside.”
Eric’s eyes flash with anger. “I’m here to keep my people alive. This little hole in the ground kept you alive, last night. Or did you forget that?”
That almost derails me. I don’t have any right to say these things. Not even a little bit. But I can’t let that stop me.
I cup my hands to my mouth. “Can anyone else here fly a plane?” I shout, and that’s when Eric grabs me. He wraps his hands around the lapels of my jacket and pulls me close, looking right into my eyes.
He speaks very
softly. “Get. Out.”
I smile. Because I wanted that anger, that naked, white-hot fury.
“I would have hidden too,” I say. “I would have kept my people around me, and kept it just us.”
I can’t help but think of the Devil Dancers, of the Nest. Of Amira.
“But here’s the thing, Eric,” I say. “The world doesn’t care. It will take your friends from you no matter what you do. Now you can get angry at me—” I drop my voice a little “—or you can get angry at the nomads. You can take the fight to them. Take the seaplane for yourselves.”
Harlan is staring at me, confusion on his face. I don’t recognise the words coming out of my mouth. Whoever owns the voice at the back of my mind is speaking for me. It’s like I’m jamming a blade into a tiny crack, twisting, finding the place where I can lever it open.
I reach up, and slowly pull Eric’s hands from my jacket, clasping them firmly.
“You know I’m right,” I say, whispering now.
And then a voice, from over by the entrance. “She kind of is, you know.”
Finkler. He looks as if he hasn’t slept: his hair is a mess, his skin sallow, and there are giant sweat stains under his armpits. He walks over to me, and without waiting for an invitation tries to pull my pants down.
“Hey!” I say, letting go of Eric, twisting away.
“Come on,” says Finkler. “Either you can pull them down, or I can, but I gotta see.”
He waves at Harlan and Eric. “You two turn around. Give the lady some privacy.”
Eric stares at me for a long moment, then turns to face the wall, along with Harlan. Blushing slightly, I work my pants down until the waistband is just above my knees.
Finkler runs his finger along the stitched-up cut. “Good, good, good. Okey-dokey. Any pain? I’m guessing you’re walking OK?”
“Yeah. Thanks to you.”
“Excellent,” he says, motioning at me to pull up my pants. His belly is peeking out below the hem of his T-shirt, and I see the fat wobbling slightly. “Keep it clean, drink lots of water. You’ll be fine. We caught it in time. I’d tell you to rest, but I’m pretty sure you’d just ignore me.” He shouts over his shoulder. “OK, now we can talk about going to get this seaplane.”
“Finkler…” Eric says. He sounds more tired than angry now.
“No, listen,” he says. “I’ll admit, last night was a bit of a clusterfuck, but it doesn’t stop her being right. We’ve known about that plane for months, and we haven’t done a damn thing about it. Now I know you’re in charge, man, but you know how everyone feels about this.”
“You’re serious,” says Eric. “You actually want us to go out there? Risk everything we’ve built?”
Finkler snorts. “I think it’s a terrible idea. But the Nomads know we’re here now. Even if we move the bodies somewhere, they’ll figure it out. If we strike back, let ’em know we won’t just lie down—”
“That’s—”
“Plus, maybe we get a seaplane out of it. Maybe we get whatever’s in the seaplane. Our medical supplies could use a restock, for one thing.” He glances at me, then back at Eric. “So is it really that terrible? There’s plenty of water to land it on. We can figure out how to disable it, too, if any Nomads do come looking. Just take a few crucial pieces out the engine.”
He doesn’t give them a chance to answer. “I’m going with her. If nothing else, it’ll be a fun day trip.”
“You could die,” Eric says. “You ever think about that, Finkler?”
He pauses a second before answering. “Yup. And you wouldn’t want to send your only real medic out there with nothing but her for protection now, would you?” He jerks a finger at me.
I could hug Finkler. Instead, I flash him a warm smile, then look back at Eric, raising my chin slightly.
I desperately want to take back everything I just said. I hate having to do this, hate having to manipulate people to get what I want. That’s what Amira would have done, or Okwembu. It’s not me, and it never has been. I tell myself that I only did it because Eric left me no choice, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t convince myself.
I try to ignore my thumping heart. Eric could still say no. He could still send us away. I don’t know if I’d blame him.
“Hell,” Harlan says. “If you’re really doing this, then I’m in. I’m no coward.”
He’s looking at me when he says it, but there’s no mistaking who he’s directing it at. Slowly, Eric raises his eyes.
“OK,” he says. “We’ll go.”
Before I can speak, he raises a finger. “It’s a scouting mission only. The four of us, and that’s it. I’m not risking anybody else on this.”
I take a deep, shaky breath. “That’s all I ask.”
Eric calls Harlan and Finkler over. I turn back to the map, my eyes on Fish Lake.
The voice inside me is silent, the anger turned down low. But I can feel it, just below the surface. It was so easy to tap into, like a vein of energy I’d always had inside me but never knew about. I tell myself that I won’t let it happen again, that I won’t let that be who I am. But the quiet voice inside me knows better. If it helps get me to Anchorage, then I’ll use it.
No matter what.
43
Anna
Anna finds Dax Schmidt on the stairwell that leads to the main Apex control room. He’s with Doctor Arroway, their heads close together, conferring in low voices.
She moves in quietly, on the balls of her feet, and neither of them realise she’s there until she puts a hand on Arroway’s shoulder, spins him around and slams him against the wall.
Arroway shouts in protest, shoving her away. He’s stronger than she is, but he isn’t ready for what Anna does next, which is to grab his hand and twist. Hard.
He grunts, the force bringing him to his knees, his arm twisted up at an awkward angle. Anna’s used the move a few times before, usually on whoever tried to jack her cargo. She knows how painful this little hold is–and from here, a further twist coupled with a strike to the elbow will snap Arroway’s arm. She doesn’t do that. She needs him talking, not screaming.
“You’re going to tell me what’s going on,” she says. “And you’re going to tell me right now.”
Arroway looks at Dax, as if pleading for help. Anna adds a little more torque to the twist, making sure Dax sees it, making sure he knows not to come any closer. “He can’t help you. Start talking.”
Fury crosses Dax’s face. “Let him go.”
Anna actually smiles. “There’s an astronaut outside the station–I don’t know how they got out there, but they did. And you.” She spits the word at Arroway. “You’re packing your bags, like you’ve won the lottery already. What do you know that we don’t?”
Neither of them respond. Arroway is still squirming a little, but the stairway is silent, save for the hum of the station.
“Anna,” Dax says again. “Let the doctor go, and I’ll tell you.”
Anna hadn’t realised she was breathing so hard. She makes a conscious effort to slow down, but doesn’t let go of Arroway’s wrist.
“Please,” Dax says.
After a moment, Anna lets the doctor go. He staggers to his feet, trembling. Anna looks at Dax, folding her arms and raising her eyebrows questioningly. He looks over one shoulder, as if to check that they really are alone.
“You’re right, OK?” he says, leaning in and lowering his voice. “We sent one of our men outside.”
“Dax,” Arroway says, hissing the word.
“Shut up, Elijah.” Dax holds Anna’s gaze. “He took one of the escape pods. Once he was outside the station, he put on one of the pod’s space suits, then he did an EVA.”
Anna frowns, not understanding. Why launch yourself in a pod if you were just going to climb out of it?
Dax sees her confusion. “We had him use the thrusters on his suit to manoeuvre the pod back inside its launch bay. Nobody would know it had ever been launched, and we’d have a man outside
the station.”
“What about the fire? Was that part of it?”
“We had to get people out of the gallery area.”
Anna stares at him in disbelief, as much for his candour as anything else. “You could have got everybody killed.”
“Well, we didn’t. We were always going to put the fire out. That wasn’t the issue.”
“What did you do? Turn off the suppression systems or something?”
“Just for long enough to get our man where he needed to be.”
Anna closes her eyes, remembering the tech on the night of the fire. No wonder he was cursing. He must have been wondering why chemicals weren’t spraying out, when the system was perfectly configured. That must have been why he tried to get into the power boxes, thinking the fault was inside.
“OK,” she says. “Where is he now? Your astronaut?”
Dax takes a shaky breath. “We sent him to the dock. Or what’s left of it. His mission was to secure one of the tug ships. Each one has plenty of emergency rations, plus a water reclaimer, so he can live out there for quite a while if he needs to.”
“A tug?” Anna says, frowning. That doesn’t make any sense.
“We think—” Dax says. “I mean, my advisers tell me that there’s a way to construct a rudimentary heat shield on one of the tugs. Something that would ablate the heat of re-entry.”
Arroway groans. Anna just keeps staring at Dax. This wasn’t the confession she was expecting–although, in hindsight, she’s not sure what she was expecting.
“But this is good,” she says, after a moment. “If we can put heat shields on the tugs, then more people can escape. Right?”
“There’s only enough heat-shield material for one tug,” Dax says. “We made it out of epoxy and a type of copper alloy. We still had some in one of the labs.”
“Then just hold the lottery now,” Anna says, hating the pleading sound in her voice, hating how young it makes her feel. “If there’s a way to escape, we should take it before the reactor…”
She trails off, her eyes wide. How could she have missed it? Why didn’t she see it before?
