Impact

by Rob Boffard

  Eventually, the first guard looks over at him. “I’ll pass it up the chain,” she says. “Keep working.”

  56

  Riley

  The three men stand frozen, staring at me like I’m a ghost.

  One of them is young, still in his twenties, with a round face and tiny bud of a mouth. The man on his left is enormous, a neat goatee covering his chin, the skin above it lined and scarred. The one on the right has a hooked nose and prominent chin that look like they’ve been carved from stone. Somehow, I know he’s Iluk–he looks like his name sounds. The one with the round face must be Koji.

  All three are wearing thick jackets, and all three have rifles. I have just enough time to take this in, and then I’m face down in the dirt, my arms twisted behind me. The ice-cold tip of a gun barrel is shoved into the back of my neck, and I can feel grains of sand digging into my cheek.

  All three men are shouting–two in English, and one in that strange language. The man with the rifle shouts at the others to shut up, digging it harder into the back of my neck.

  I have to tell myself to breathe. This is the only way. If I want to get off this island, I have to go with them. I don’t know what happens after that, but I’ll figure it out. Somehow.

  “You alone out here?” the man says. When I don’t answer immediately, he shoves the back of my head. I feel sand in my mouth, rough against my tongue. “Answer me.”

  “I’m alone,” I say, the words muffled.

  “You sure you’re telling the truth there, girl?” I feel the gun barrel shift, as if the man holding it is getting a better grip on the trigger. “Because if you’re not…”

  I raise my head, just enough to get my mouth out of the sand. “I’m the only survivor.”

  “Now I know you’re lying. There were more people in that plane of yours. It was still flying, even after Curtis shot ’em full of holes.”

  The pressure comes off my back, and the man flips me over. I try to get an elbow underneath me, but then the gun is in my face. It’s hard to look anywhere but the huge black barrel in front of me.

  “Where’d you come from?”

  There’s no point lying to him. Unless they’ve got planes of their own, they’re not getting to Eric’s people. “Whitehorse,” I say.

  He laughs. “That so? Long way to come. You want to tell me why you’re all the way out here?”

  To find my friends. To kill someone.

  While I’m trying to think of something to say, he lifts his foot and slams it down on my stomach.

  I curl into a ball. I don’t have a choice. The pain is hot and feverish, radiating up from my abdomen in long waves. I feel Ray digging through my pockets, pulling out the contents, grunting as he stuffs them into his jacket.

  “Jesus, Ray!” says Koji. Iluk spits a sentence I can’t understand–I don’t know if he’s angry with Ray, or goading him on.

  “You want to come back with us?” Ray’s mouth is inches from my ear. “Fine. But you’re going to wish you’d stayed here.”

  57

  Riley

  My hands are bound behind me, held in place by rusty metal cuffs. The edges are worn and jagged, and I have to keep my hands as still as I can to avoid cutting the skin. The floor of the boat is hard plastic, cold and wet under my cheek.

  It goes against everything I am to lie still. I want to take these people down, one by one, take that rifle away and shove it in their faces, listen to them beg. But the voice tells me to be calm, and I’m learning to listen to it.

  Ray sees me looking up at him, and shakes his head. “The second you come off that floor, I’ll put a bullet in your kneecap.”

  The sides of the boat are large tubes made of grainy rubber, tapering to a point at the front. A wave slaps the side, its tip launching over the tube, spraying me in the face. There’s a motor at the back of the boat, which Iluk controls using a long handle.

  We crest another wave, and the engine coughs and splutters, threatening to give out. Iluk says something back in that strange language, irritated. Ray stands up, moving to help him. “Watch her,” he says, jamming the rifle into Koji’s hands.

  I clear my throat, looking up at Koji. He seems calmer than Ray, less likely to lash out. “Where are we going?” I say.

  No response.

  “Am I the only new person?” I say. “Or are there others like me?”

  Koji looks down, then back up at me. For the second time, I see something in his eyes, something I can’t quite read.

  The engine starts up again. Ray straightens, satisfied, then glares at me. “You speak when spoken to, you hear?”

  I fall silent, desperate to know more, but aware of how fragile my position is. Underneath me, my bound hands are in agony.

  And then all at once, there’s something above us. Sliding into view, impossibly huge. It’s like a mountain decided to shoot up from underwater. I squint up at it, trying to work out what it is.

  This was what I saw from the island–that strange shape against the skyline. It’s man-made, built from giant metal plates, leaning over us at a sharp angle. The plates are discoloured for a few feet above the water, painted with green fungus and brown rust. Over our heads, I see the letters A-11 marked on the metal. Each letter is white, outlined in thick grey paint, and each one has to be four times the size of a man.

  There’s a wide rectangular gap in the plates, twenty feet above the waterline. Faces peer down from it. Iluk cuts the motor, and one of them shouts, the words lost in the rush of the ocean. Ray cups his hand to his mouth and yells back. “Nah, just the one. Throw us the ladder.”

  The face vanishes. A second later, a rope ladder unfurls, clanking against the hull and splashing into the water. Koji reaches out for it, pulling it towards us, while Ray secures the boat. There’s an upright piece of metal that’s been welded to the hull, sticking out from it, and Ray ties the boat to it with a thick, wet length of rope.

  Iluk’s face appears above me, upside down. He grabs me by the shoulders and hauls me to my feet. The rocking motion of the boat nearly topples me over, and he has to grab me by the scruff of my jacket, only just stopping me from falling in.

  “How’s she gonna climb?” says Koji.

  “What?” says Ray.

  “Her hands are tied.”

  Ray makes an annoyed sound, then grabs hold of me, spinning me around. The cuffs snap off my wrists, and I resist the urge to cry out as the blood rushes back, pins and needles digging deep into my hands.

  He brings me back the other way, pulling my hands together and cuffing them in front. This time, the cuffs aren’t quite as tight.

  “Climb,” he says, jerking his thumb upwards.

  It takes one or two tries to grab the swaying ladder. The sides are rope, but the rungs are made of rough wood, and splinters bite into my palms as I move. The cuffs make the climb even more awkward. Halfway up, I glance back over my shoulder. Fire Island is there, and the impossibly empty sea beyond it. I look for the seaplane, but it’s nowhere to be found.

  “Keep moving,” Ray says from below me.

  As I reach the top of the ladder, strong hands pull me over the edge. I roll onto the deck, my heart pumping. The people standing above me are all variations of Ray, with beards and grimy skin and dark, angry eyes.

  I look past them, to the space we’re in. It’s huge–big enough to park two seaplanes across, wingtip to wingtip. The walls are made of ribbed metal, with curved struts every couple of feet. Oversized fluorescent lights criss-cross the ceiling.

  “This is all you came back with?” one of the men says, prodding my shoulder with the tip of his boot. “Doesn’t look like much.”

  “We’ll let Prophet decide that,” Ray says. Now that he’s in here, his voice is quieter, as if shouting won’t be tolerated. He and Koji lift me to my feet, and the crowd parts in front of us.

  I’m hustled through a door into a narrow corridor–so narrow that we have to walk single file: Iluk and Ray in front, Koji behind. Th
e corridor has heavy, ribbed walls, like the entranceway. The lights are sparse, one every twenty feet or so, each one covered by a wire cage. There are enormous pipes running along the ceiling, cocooned in thick, silver insulation.

  There’s no chance of escape here, nowhere to go, no door that isn’t sealed tight. Frustration starts to build–Carver and Prakesh are somewhere on this ship, they have to be, but I can’t see any way I can escape.

  And there’s something behind the frustration. It takes me a moment to pinpoint it. A weird sense of déjà vu, like I should recognise my surroundings. Like I’ve been here before.

  I close my eyes, irritated with myself. My mind’s playing tricks on me, just like it did when I looked at the sky for the first time. I breathe deep, letting the frustration fade, letting it be replaced with anger. I have to trust that anger–it’s kept me alive so far, and it’s going to keep me alive now.

  The passage opens up a little. There’s a stairway leading up to the next level: impossibly steep, with steps even narrower than the corridor. Ray and Iluk are already climbing it, and Koji gives me a push from behind, his hand on the small of my back.

  Another door, with a valve handle. When Iluk cranks it back, bright daylight shoots into the corridor. I try to raise a hand to my eyes, forgetting for a moment that I’m cuffed. Ray reaches for me, pulling me through the door.

  We’re outside, on a long balcony bordered by waist-high railings. Below us is the deck of the ship: a massive space, bigger than any gallery on Outer Earth. Its surface is covered with strange markings, yellow chevrons, white stripes, warnings in huge lettering.

  There are a dozen planes, lined up in rows along the deck. They aren’t like the seaplane: they’re sleek, predatory, with needle-like noses and enormous tail fins. But as I look closer, I see that their surfaces are caked in rust. The surface of their wheels has rotted away, and several of them list to one side.

  We move along the balcony. My shoulder blades are hurting a little less now, and it’s getting easier to move. I keep sneaking glances at the deck. There are things I missed the first time round, like the metal plates angled at forty-five degrees to the deck. There’s a strange structure on the edge, too: a massive cylinder, capped by a dome.

  Ray sees me looking, claps a hand on my shoulder. For a moment, he sounds almost jovial. “That’s the Phalanx gun. Still got plenty of ammo left. But you and your friends in the plane figured that out already, right?”

  As I watch, the gun gives out a metallic whirring noise, turning a few degrees to the right. Its barrel comes into view, sticking out at right angles to the cylinder.

  A moment later, we duck through a door, coming out into another narrow stairway. There’s more light here, and it’s a little quieter than down below.

  Another set of stairs. Then another. And then Ray is cranking open a door, much larger than the others, and he and Iluk pull me through.

  We’re in a control room of some kind, not much larger than the one in Apex on Outer Earth. The layout is immediately familiar: banks of screens, chaotic groups of chairs, low lighting. There are large windows overlooking the deck, and I can see the fog just starting to lift.

  The room is packed with people. Some of them are gathered around screens, while others are off to one side, talking in small groups. Several of them have rifles, slung across their chests or hanging down their backs. I feel their eyes on me, sizing me up, taking in my mismatched clothing and bound hands.

  My gaze falls on a table in the middle of the room. There’s a map spread across it, like the one Harlan showed me, only much larger. Alaska, the Yukon, other areas I can’t name.

  Ray reaches into his jacket, pulling out the items he took from me: the scarf, the bear spray, the meat strips. He lines them up on the table in front of him, then clears his throat. “Prophet.”

  One of the men clustered around the table raises his head to look at us. He wears a stiff, brown jacket over a dark shirt, and one of his eyes is gone, sewn closed with ugly, amateurish stitches.

  And sitting behind him, bent over a computer screen: Janice Okwembu.

  58

  Okwembu

  Before Okwembu can do anything, Hale somehow gets away from the men holding her.

  One moment she’s being held by her arms, the next she’s twisted free. Her hands are still cuffed in front of her, but it’s as if she barely notices. She’s at the table in two strides, launching herself across it. Her left foot lands squarely on the map, planting itself on the border between Alaska and Canada, crumpling the paper, and then she’s diving for Okwembu.

  Prophet’s forearm takes Hale on the collarbone. Okwembu has just enough time to step to the side before Hale crashes across the floor.

  Everyone on the bridge is on their feet, racking the bolts on their rifles. Ray plants a foot on Hale’s stomach, forcing her to stay down.

  Okwembu finds her eyes, holds them. She may not know how Hale managed to get here, to escape the Shinso and make it all the way to Alaska, but it doesn’t matter. Her shock is starting to give way to anger, to pure righteous fury. She holds her ground, breathing hard, keeping her expression neutral.

  Hale is a mess. Her clothing is ragged, mismatched, soaked from sea spray. She has a cut on her cheek, and dark rivulets of blood have dried on her face. She’s struggling, spitting mad, her eyes never leaving Okwembu’s. “You,” she says. “You. You. Y—”

  Ray hits her, driving a foot into her stomach, and her body shakes from the impact. Okwembu’s hand strays to the data stick, still hanging round her neck. She was about to take it off when Hale attacked her. If it had been damaged…

  Prophet looks at Ray. He’s deeply rattled, his lip shaking with fury. “What in the name of the Engine did you bring her up here for?”

  “She’s from the plane,” Ray says, giving Hale a shake. “Her friend didn’t make it.”

  Prophet walks over, lifting Hale’s chin.

  “Now why would the Engine send you?” he says. His expression hardens. “Let’s start with the aircraft. Where did you take off from?”

  Hale tries to get loose again, wrenching her shoulders back and forth. She doesn’t succeed, and this time Ray hits her across the face, his fist landing with a sound like a gun firing. Hale falls limp, blood dripping from her mouth, pattering softly on the floor.

  Prophet leans in close to her. “I’ll ask again,” he say. “Where did the plane come from?”

  Hale says nothing, flexing her jaw left and right, eyes squeezed shut. When she speaks, it’s to Okwembu, not Prophet. “Where are they?” she says. The aggression in her voice is like an open wound. She’s speaking around the blood, and more of it drips between her lips, coating her teeth “Prakesh. Carver. Are they here?”

  “Now you listen,” Prophet says, grabbing Hale’s chin and turning her head towards him. “That plane. Are there others like it? How many people were with you?”

  Hale stares at him, like he’s speaking another language. After a long moment, she swallows hard, then says, “Out of Whitehorse. Just the one plane.”

  “Good. How many of you were there?”

  “… Four.”

  “And why did you—”

  Hale cuts him off, speaking to him but looking directly at Okwembu. “I hope you realise who you’ve got on your ship. Whatever she’s told you, it’s a lie. That’s what she does. She lies. You let me walk out of here with her, and—”

  Iluk grabs Hale’s hair and yanks her head back. She barks a cry of fury, and he spits something at her in Inuktuk.

  Okwembu can feel Prophet looking at her, his eyes searching. She ignores him, looking right back at Hale. Get control of the situation.

  “She’s the one who isn’t being honest,” she says. “I know her from Outer Earth. She’s responsible for the virus that nearly wiped us out.”

  Hale tries to speak. It earns her another punch, snapping her head sideways and sending dots of blood onto one of the screens.

  “Then why did she a
ttack you?” Prophet says.

  Okwembu shrugs. “She disagreed with some of the decisions I made.”

  Silence. Okwembu keeps her eyes on Prophet. She suppresses the urge to elaborate, letting the seconds tick by.

  “Should I take her downstairs, Prophet?” Ray says. “We lost another one yesterday. They could probably use the extra hands.”

  Prophet shakes his head, looking Hale up and down. “She’s violent, this one. Something tells me she won’t be so comfortable serving the Engine.”

  He turns away. “Take her to the stern.”

  59

  Anna

  By the time Anna reaches the gallery, her shock has turned into a righteous, roaring fury. Every stride she takes feels like it drives an electric bolt of anger through her body.

  She skids to a halt on the Level 1 catwalk above the gallery floor. There’s a muted alarm blaring somewhere, along with the recorded voice advising evacuation. The escape pod bay doors are still closed, with nothing but darkness through their viewports.

  For a moment, Anna is confused. Where were the stompers? Why didn’t they stop Dax and his group from…

  That’s when she sees them. Two bodies, clad in grey stomper jumpsuits, sprawled face down on the floor. It’s impossible to miss the blood pooling under them.

  Another electric bolt shoots up through her, and she pounds her fist on the railing in frustration. Jordan. That must have been her price. Places in the escape pods for her and her buddies. Did the two dead stompers refuse? Did they try to stop them?

  A strange sound pulls her out of her thoughts. It takes a second to place it: someone is crying. No–not just someone. A child.

  Anna launches herself over the catwalk railing, turning one-eighty degrees in mid-air, using a hand on the railing as a fulcrum. She comes down with her toes in between the railings and her heels hanging out over the edge. She relaxes into the landing, then pushes herself off the catwalk.