by Rob Boffard
It’s not far down–ten feet, maybe, no more. She lands with a thud, not bothering to roll, staggering a little on impact. The crying is coming from her left, and she turns her head, hunting for the source.
Ivy.
She must’ve been here when it all went down. She’s huddled by the wall, sitting with her back against it, her hands wrapped around her knees. Anna sprints to her, pulling the trembling girl into an embrace.
“It’s all right,” Anna says. She says it again, then a third time, as if she needs to convince herself.
There’s nothing she can do. She should take Ivy back, find somebody to look after her. She gets to her feet, cradling the girl. Ivy is still crying, but the sobs are silent now, and she snuggles into Anna’s shoulder.
That’s when Anna notices the last airlock.
The viewpoints in almost all the airlocks are dark, but the last one is different. There’s the faintest glimmer inside it, so faint that at first Anna is sure she’s imagined it.
She crosses the floor, avoiding the two dead stompers. As she reaches the bay door, she sees that the viewport is just out of her reach. But she didn’t imagine the light–it’s a little clearer now, like the glow cast from a tab screen.
Her heart beating faster, she drops to one knee, whispering in Ivy’s ear. “I have to put you down, OK? Just for a second.”
Ivy doesn’t move. Slowly, Anna disengages the girl’s hands from around her neck, and places her gently on the floor, making sure she’s not looking at the stompers. Then she gets on tiptoe, straining to get as high as she can, and looks into the viewport.
The escape pod is still there.
Anna doesn’t know why they didn’t take it. Maybe someone got cold feet. Maybe they left so quickly that there wasn’t time to inform everybody. It doesn’t matter. Not now.
She crouches down, putting her hand on Ivy’s cheek, feeling still-warm tears as her fingers touch the skin. The girl’s face is deathly pale.
“Ivy? Honey?” she says. “I want you to do something for me.”
Ivy starts to answer, glancing at the stompers.
“No,” Anna says. “Don’t look at them. They can’t hurt you. I promise. Now, what I want you to do is run. Fast as you can, far as you can, until you find a grown-up. Can you do that for me?”
Ivy stares at her. Anna is about to repeat herself when the girl nods. Her enormous brown eyes prickle with fresh tears.
“Good,” Anna says, forcing a smile onto her face. She hugs Ivy one more time. “Go. Now.”
Ivy skims across the floor, her oversized red sweater trailing out behind her. She only looks back once. Anna stays put, anticipating the look, and even manages a wave. Then Ivy is into the corridor, and out of sight.
Anna turns back to the pod. Her fingers brush the release catch next to the door. “Oh, this is a very bad idea,” she mutters to herself.
She clambers into the airlock, pulling open the door of the escape pod inside it. The pod itself is tiny. There are three soft-backed seats arranged in a triangular formation at the front. A transparent locker on one side holds three space suits. Anna can’t see a thing through the cockpit viewport, which stretches around the seats. The only light comes from the controls themselves, from the multiple touchscreens on the U-shaped line of controls around the front seat.
I shouldn’t be doing this, Anna thinks. But then she’s clambering over the seats, dropping into the foremost one, fumbling with the safety belt. There are straps, clicking into place at her sternum. Three touchscreens in front of her, black and silent. There’s a single joystick beneath them, with two thick plastic buttons–one on the top, one on the front.
She doesn’t know that much about Outer Earth’s escape pods. She remembers being told once that they’re relatively simple to operate–they have to be, given the situations they might be used in. But how do you turn them on? How do you launch them?
Breathing fast, she gives the nearest touchscreen an experimental tap. Somewhere behind her, she hears an engine kick into action, rumbling through the little craft. The airlock around the pod comes to life. A rotating light near the ceiling comes on, and the door to the station seals shut behind her with a grinding noise.
A dozen readouts appear on the screens: fuel capacity, estimated range, attitude, thruster locations. Anna stares at them, horrified. A half-second later the displays dim, and a message appears on the centre display. LAUNCH?
Anna raises a finger. Stops.
She is out of her depth. The fear is setting in now, crawling out of her nightmares and tearing its way into the real world. You’re going to die out there, she thinks, and it’s almost enough to send her flying out of the chair, back into the station, back to her parents. There has to be someone else who can do this.
And then, before she can stop herself, her finger touches the screen.
60
Prakesh
It takes a while for the guard to return. She strides over to Prakesh, rifle swinging. “Higher-ups say to do it. Get going.”
He doesn’t waste time getting to work, already aware of what he needs. The ammonium sulfate is easy. Prakesh can get that from the slippery white fertiliser pellets. Same with the sulphur–that’s the yellow insecticide. They give him a plastic cup to use as a scoop, but some still gets on his hands, prickling at his skin.
The calcium hydroxide is the tricky part. He needs calcium oxide first, and the usual source of that would be a stick of chalk. The guard assigned to watch him just stares blankly when Prakesh asks for some.
He tries to keep the frustration off his face. “What about shells?”
“Shells?” the guard says slowly. He’s not much older than Prakesh, with dark brown skin and a shaggy mess of black hair, but he holds his rifle like it’s an extension of his arm. Like it would be the work of a single thought to bring it up and pull the trigger.
“Yeah, like—” Prakesh can feel the word, dancing on the tip of his tongue. What the hell are those things called? The name snaps to the front of his mind. “Barnacles. They’d be stuck to the ship? Right at the waterline. I just need two or three.”
He takes a step forward, moving without thinking, and is brought up short by a rifle barrel in his face.
“You don’t move,” says the guard. “I’ll get them.”
Slowly, he lowers the rifle, then calls one of the others over to spot for him. He stalks off, his boots tapping on the metal floor of the farm.
They’ve got Prakesh in one corner of the hangar, set up with a couple of old tables. There’s a portable gas ring, purloined from the mess hall. Fresh water sloshes in a big metal drum. They’ve even managed to find him some tongs, their metal surface blackened with age.
It’s not even close to perfect. The chemistry he’s about to perform is unbelievably inefficient, the kind of procedure that would make his old Air Lab colleagues burst out laughing. But it’s all Prakesh has.
He waits, hands on the table, head bent. Jojo and the others are still at the troughs, working on the soil. Every few minutes, a guard will pull some of them away, letting them take a piss break.
Please let this work.
The guard returns with a handful of barnacles: lumpy, misshapen things with jagged white shells. He dumps them onto the table. “Ruined my knife getting these off,” he says, tapping a chipped blade hanging from his belt.
“Sorry,” Prakesh mutters, gathering the shells.
He gets both hands under one of the metal drums, lifts it up, then smashes it down on the shells. They’re hard, weather-worn, and it takes a few hits before they begin to crack.
The gas burner is tricky to get going–Prakesh can’t stop his hands from shaking, and he keeps fumbling the butane lighter. Eventually, he does it, and a scorching blue flame rises up from the plate.
Prakesh holds the smashed shells over the flames until they smoulder and crumble, kicking off a thin white smoke. He catches the fragments in one of the plastic beakers. He can feel the heat singeing
the skin on his fingers, and bites his lip, pushing through it. Soon, the beaker is full of clumpy, off-white powder. Calcium oxide, or something close to it.
He dumps it in the water-filled drum, using the tongs to stir it. There. Calcium hydroxide.
The guard leans in. “So how does it work?”
“Huh?”
“This chemistry shit.” He gestures at the drum.
“Oh,” says Prakesh. “Well… calcium hydroxide from the shells will react with the existing fertiliser, and it should make it more potent, so…”
“Right.” The guard’s actually interested, his gun lowered, tilting his head to one side as he regards the drum. “My mom showed me this stuff in a book once. Didn’t really know how it all worked but I always wanted to try it.”
The drum goes on top of the burner. Prakesh has to get the guard to help, which he does willingly, handing his rifle off to one of the others. Even then, they nearly send the entire mess flying when the guard’s fingers slip. Prakesh pulls it back at the last moment, exhaling a shaky breath.
“There,” says the guard, dusting off his hands. “What’s next?”
Prakesh’s mind goes blank for a moment, surprised at having such an eager lab assistant. “Uh… the sulphur. Right over there.”
“Yeah, you got it.”
The guard brings it over. Working quickly, Prakesh dumps several scoops of the sulphur into the pot, then stirs it all together. The ammonium sulfate fertiliser goes in last, followed by a thick sheet of scrap metal as a makeshift lid.
“So shouldn’t there be some sort of, what’s it called, reaction now?” the guard says.
Prakesh shrugs, trying to ignore how much his shoulders hurt. “It’ll take a little time, but sure.”
“Nice,” says the guard, hands on his hips. “Guess you’d better get back to work.” He sounds genuinely apologetic.
Prakesh walks with his head down, sliding in next to Jojo. The kid says nothing, doesn’t even look at him.
Prakesh digs his hands into the soil, and tries not to look at the metal drum.
61
Riley
They carry me off the bridge. I try and stop them, kicking and thrashing, screaming at them to let me go. It doesn’t do any good. My hands are still cuffed, and while Ray holds my upper body, Iluk wraps his huge arms around my legs, pinning them together. My eyes keep being drawn back to Okwembu, like light getting sucked into a black hole.
Iluk lets go when we reach the bottom of the stairs. Ray lifts me up, spins me around and slams me back against the wall. I bang my head, sending flickering sparks across the edge of my vision. My face is numb, and the ache in my stomach is rolling up through my body.
“You got a choice,” Ray says. “You can go to the stern as you are, or you can go there with broken arms. Your call.”
I stop struggling. There’s got to be a way out of this, there must be, but I won’t be able to act on it if I’m crippled. After a few moments, I raise my chin then give Ray a tight nod.
“All right then,” he says.
Ray drags me down the corridors, Iluk and Koji following behind us, down more flights of stairs, until eventually we reach another rectangular opening in the side of the ship. I can see white clouds through it, hanging low over the gently whispering ocean. Unlike the way we came in, there’s no one else here. The space is completely empty.
Ray and Iluk drop me on the metal floor, right on the edge. There’s nothing between me and the world outside.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” Koji says.
“One more word, Koji,” Ray says. “Just one.”
I look back, and see that Ray has a new gun.
I don’t know where he got it from. It’s a rifle, the wooden stock polished to a high sheen. He’s loading it carefully, almost tenderly. Iluk stands with his arms folded. Koji is cowering behind him, as if he’s being forced to watch.
Ray sees me looking. “Sorry. Prophet says you’re gone, you’re gone.” He racks the bolt. “You can die on your feet, or on your knees. I don’t much care which.”
I barely register his words. There’s a taste of copper in my mouth, the metallic tang of fear. My hands are shaking. The whole way down here, I was looking for anything I could use, and got nothing. Even if I somehow managed to escape, I’d still be stuck on the ship, trapped in the narrow corridors. And in the next few seconds Ray is going to put a bullet through me.
But the anger I feel is stronger than the fear. Even after everything I’ve been through, there’s one thing that will never change. I’m a tracer–no, more than that, I’m a Devil Dancer, and I’ve come too far and fought too hard to let it end here.
Slowly, I get to one knee. Ray glances down at the gun again, and that’s when I act.
I launch myself forwards, head down, leading with my shoulder. Ray sees me coming, raises the gun, but I’m moving way too fast for him. My shoulder bends his body in two, the air leaving him in an explosive rush.
Iluk is there, his hands on me, trying to push me to the floor. He’s strong, much stronger than I am, and if I let him get ahold of me I’ll be a static target for Ray to aim at. So I throw my head back, and feel bone shatter as it crunches against Iluk’s nose.
Ray jerks the gun around, snapping the side of the barrel against my cheek. It’s a glancing blow, but it’s enough to knock me off balance, sending me to my knees. I twist to one side, and the gun goes off, right by my head–I feel the kick power through me, the bang slamming my ears shut.
Ray’s hand goes to the bolt again, starts to pull it back. That makes him vulnerable. I use the tiny window of time it gives me, and throw myself towards him.
My hands are still cuffed in front of me. I lift them high, then bring them down on the other side of Ray’s head. It looks like I’m embracing him. I rock backwards, the handcuffs digging into the back of his neck, pulling with every ounce of strength I have.
He grunts, trying to plant his feet. For a horrifying instant he feels too heavy, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to throw him off balance. But I’m faster than he is, and his centre of gravity is way too high. As I roll backwards, he comes with me, his weight pressing down.
His hands pull at my jacket, but I’ve got momentum on my side. I keep the roll going, using my thighs and abdominal muscles to transfer the energy to him. He somersaults, landing flat on his back. I look back, the world upside down suddenly, and I can see that his feet are hanging over the edge.
I roll over, pushing myself upwards with my bound hands. Koji is backing away, terrified, and Iluk is lying face down on the floor. There’s a pool of blood spreading out from around his head. One of his hands is tucked under his neck, as if trying to seal the bullet wound.
Ray is up on one knee. Somehow, he’s still holding the gun. He pulls the trigger, but there’s no bullet in the chamber–he never got a chance to pull the bolt back before I threw him over.
Tough luck, Ray.
He curses, hands flying to the bolt. I sprint towards him, and drive my fist into his temple.
I can almost see the pressure waves moving through his flesh. He doesn’t fall, but his head snaps to the side, and I feel a burst of bitter pleasure as I regain my balance. My hearing is coming back, and Ray’s moan of pain is crystal-clear.
I snatch the gun away, gripping it by the top of the barrel. Then I lean back, and kick Ray in the chest.
The move disrupts my own centre of gravity, and I fall flat on my ass. It doesn’t matter. Ray is in mid-air, his eyes wide with terror. A half-second later he’s gone.
No time. There’s still one more.
I can feel the prolonged effects of adrenaline starting to take hold, making my hands shake and my vision blur. I rock forward, launching my body upright. I’m holding the gun wrong, my hands around the barrel–and it’s a big gun, heavy, my wrists already aching from keeping it up. It’s useless in this position, unless I want to use it as a club. If Koji’s got a weapon of his own, that decision might cost me
.
There’s only one thing I can do. I launch myself into a sprint, heading for one side of the opening, the gun held out in front of me. I feel the shock wave as the stock slams into the wall, but I’m ready for it, letting my hands travel down the body, twisting sideways to let the barrel slide past me. It works. My fingers find the bolt, and I have just enough grip to swing the gun, letting the stock seat itself in my stomach.
I’m already thinking ahead–I have to draw the bolt back, chamber a round, reseat my hands so I can pull the trigger, draw a bead on Koji, and fire. It’s going to have to be perfect. One mistake, and he’ll do to me what I did to Ray.
My hands turn sideways, catching the bolt, snapping it backwards. I feel a round enter the chamber, and I’m already hunting for the trigger guard when Koji yells out, “Wait! Don’t shoot!”
I look up. He’s standing a few feet away, his hands up, terror on his face. “Don’t shoot,” he says again.
My finger finds the trigger. My skin is soaked with sweat, and a drop falls into my eye, blurring my vision, stinging with salt. Aim. Aim now, while he’s standing still.
“I knew John Hale,” he says. “Your father. I knew him.”
62
Prakesh
The liquid in the drum is bubbling, the metal lid clanking up and down. The sound scratches at Prakesh’s eardrums.
It’s taking too long. He should be smelling something by now. They all should. But there’s just the loamy, thick fug of the soil, accentuated by the tang of the fertiliser.
Prakesh tells himself not to look, but does anyway. The guard is hovering near the drum, watching the reaction.
Prakesh looks back down. It didn’t work. They’re going to figure it out. It’s over.
At that moment, he hears the guard shouting at him.
The guard doesn’t know his name. He’s just shouting, “Chemistry guy!” Prakesh looks up, feeling all the blood drain from his face.
“Is it meant to smell that bad?” the guard shouts.
