Impact

by Rob Boffard

  Somehow, he got through it. The rest of the workers were there, along with dozens of others he hadn’t seen before. Eric brought them all, running back and forth to Anchorage. It took three or four trips to do it.

  He walks down the central passageway, hands in his pockets. Over at the end, he can see one of Riley’s old tracer unit friends, deep in conversation with someone he thinks is her dad. Anna, that’s her name. He hasn’t said much to her, but she gives him a friendly wave anyway. He returns it.

  He intends to head out of the hospital, maybe take a walk. But as he passes the vegetable garden, he changes course. The garden itself is in an area walled off with hanging plastic sheets, sticky with condensation. He pushes through them, casting a practised eye over the large half-drums, turned on their sides and filled with good soil. His fingers stray to the surface of one, and tiny clumps gather under his fingernails.

  He’ll get his walk in a minute.

  The trowel is just where he left it, and he squats on his haunches. His scar complains, but he ignores it, working the soil, letting his mind drift. As it so often does, it drifts back to his parents.

  He’s read the message Anna brought him so often that he has it memorised. It’s not difficult, not for something so short. His mother was the one who wrote it, tapping it out on a small tab screen that Anna brought with her. Prakesh has wondered a thousand times why they didn’t record a video. The letter doesn’t say, and when he asked Anna she said she didn’t know.

  We don’t have long, the message read. Your father and I want you to know that we won’t suffer. Nobody on the station will. They’ve found a way to make it painless–we’ll all just go to sleep.

  He works the soil harder, the words running through his mind.

  We know you took responsibility for Resin. We cannot tell you enough that it wasn’t your fault. Nobody here thinks so. It was bad luck, and that’s the end of it. I know this probably won’t change how you feel but please realise that if you hadn’t done it, someone else would have. It was inevitable.

  We never thought any of us would ever go back to Earth. It hurts that we can’t be there with you and see the things you’re seeing. But we know you and Riley will be happy. I wish we could have known her better but she means a lot to you and that is enough for us. Take care of her. I want grandchildren!!!

  We love you and we are so so very proud of you.

  Prakesh props the trowel in the end of the soil bed, running the last line over again in his mind.

  This can wait. He needs to get out.

  As he heads back down the passage towards the entrance, his thoughts turn to Riley.

  She’s getting better every day. She smiles more, talks more. She’s coming back to him, piece by piece. He wishes it would happen faster, but he knows not to rush things. He’s got a long way to go himself.

  Where are you? he thinks. He finds himself closing his eyes, as if he can find out where she is by thought alone. Then he opens them, and keeps walking.

  99

  Riley

  I let the ice-cold water crash over me. It explodes across my head and neck, runs down onto my shoulders, spatters on my chest and thighs. I give it five more seconds, then I step out of the waterfall, shivering, every inch of my skin tingling.

  It’s an incredible feeling. No matter how many times I step under the waterfall, I never get tired of it. Maybe it’s because we never had showers on Outer Earth. I never had the sensation of having water all around me until we came here.

  At first I hated it–it’s all too easy to remember Fire Island, and the sick, leaden feeling that came with swimming to shore. But as the winter faded away, I started running in the hills above Whitehorse. Eric and Harlan didn’t want me to, said it was too dangerous, but they couldn’t stop me. And then one day I came across another waterfall–a trickle, really, a stream running off a six-foot drop onto mossy rocks. On a whim, I took my clothes off and stood under it. I screamed with cold at first, gasping, not sure what the hell I was doing, but when I stepped out it felt like I’d been given a brand-new body.

  The water here is different from the ocean. Just as cold, but brighter somehow. I can’t explain it.

  I move on shivering tiptoes to the edge of the rocks, shake off the excess water and quickly pull on my clothes. A dark jacket, a faded blue shirt, a rough pair of pants. Thick socks, and light shoes. I keep an ear out for movement in the forest–we haven’t seen the Nomads for a while, and the wolves seem to have moved on, too. But I still keep my ears open.

  There’s pain as I pull my clothes on. I spent most of the winter in a hospital bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. I’d torn muscles in my back, my side. I had cracked ribs. Some of my cuts got infected–Finkler would have been furious. I don’t remember a lot about that part of the winter, but as the weather got warmer my body started to come back.

  I’m still freezing. The air has a serious chill in it, even though winter is gone. A run will warm me up. I jump once, twice, relishing the almost audible crackle of my shocked skin, then take off into the forest.

  After all this time, the rhythm of running still calms me, even when I don’t have a direction, even when there’s no cargo on my back. Stride, land, cushion, spring, repeat. I let the movement take me, block out everything else.

  I only come to a stop when I reach the big tree.

  It’s not much–it’s long dead, broken off and weathered away, but its stump still reaches two feet above my head. Its roots are huge, digging out of the earth, stretching in all directions. It should be a bad place, a dead place. But it isn’t. It’s surrounded by plants: old man’s beard and cattail, and little white flowers that bend towards it. I look up, like I always do, and can just see a streak of blue through a gap in the clouds.

  Aaron Carver is buried in Anchorage. Before we did it, I tore a strip of fabric from his shirt. I still can’t fully explain why I took it. I tucked it inside my pocket, held tight to it, and all through the long winter, when the wind roared and howled and icy rain and snow buffeted the hospital and infection turned my body into a furnace, my hand kept finding it.

  I didn’t intend to bury the fabric at this tree. Carver would have preferred somewhere with machinery, with a worktop and soldering iron, where he could tinker. But I wanted somewhere private, and I liked how the tree made me feel, so I pushed the fabric down into the earth, nestled it against one of the roots.

  I’ve come up here plenty of times since then. I’ve cried a lot, but this time, as I sit down with my back against the tree, my face is dry. I feel like I’ve cried every single tear I have. There’s nothing left to give.

  “Are you there?” I whisper. I’ve never worshipped any of Outer Earth’s gods. I don’t know what happens to us after we die. I’m just doing the only thing I can do.

  No answer. Nothing but the wind through the trees.

  I sit there for a few minutes, until the cold starts to sink into my muscles. Then I get to my feet, looking in the direction of Whitehorse.

  Prakesh will never know what I said to Carver in the depths of the Ramona, after we sealed the bulkhead door. He can’t know. I won’t let the choice I made affect what happens next. We’ve been through so much together, and while our bond might not be perfect, it’s still strong.

  One of the lucid thoughts I remember from the long winter is that I never asked Prakesh what he wanted. I was so caught up in how I’d treated Carver, and the decision I made, that I never gave any thought to what he might be feeling. I’m going to change that. He deserves some happiness. I think I can give it to him.

  Maybe along the way I’ll find some of my own.

  But that can come later. There’s still two miles between me and Whitehorse, and this is my favourite part of the whole run.

  I head downhill through the forest, slowing when I come to the tree line. I can see the shape of the Whitehorse hospital in the distance.

  Between us is a field. It’s overgrown, the ground uneven, but it’s filled w
ith long grass. The grass flickers in shades of yellow and green, teased by the wind.

  The clouds have faded a little. More gaps have opened in them, and the sun is just peeking through. I raise my face to it, let it warm my skin. The sky beyond the clouds is so blue that it hurts to look at it.

  I start running. I sprint across the field, arms out behind me, pounding the ground, focusing on the in–out, push–pull of my breathing. The sun is warm on the back of my neck, the world falling away behind me as I go faster, and faster, and faster.

  Acknowledgements

  As this is the end of Riley’s story (for now) I’ve got a few more people to thank than usual. But of all of them, you’re the most important. Thanks for hanging out with me. Let’s do this again sometime.

  Thanks to Dr Joanne Duma, who talked to me about post-traumatic stress disorder, and to the great Professor Owen Brian Toon (University of Colorado Boulder), for his insight on what the world would look like after a nuclear war. Dr Barnaby Osborne (University of New South Wales) also had a hand in this, as he usually does.

  Mandy Johnson from Yukon Horsepacking Adventures took me out into the backcountry, and showed me the terrain. She told me about old man’s beard, spruce sap, lowbrush cranberries, and how not to piss off a bear. Just stop and let it go about its business, apparently.

  Then there are the wolves. In real life, they almost never attack humans. While it’s reasonable to believe that a large, very hungry pack would be aggressive enough to attack Riley, it’s extremely unlikely in today’s climate. Even with the damage we’re doing to our environment, wolf populations remain pretty stable. Cameron Feaster at the International Wolf Center (wolf.org) answered all my questions, and if you’re looking for info, he and his organisation are an excellent place to start.

  Errors, as always, are all mine.

  To my friends: George Kelly, Chris Ellis, Rayne Taylor, Dane Taylor, Ida Horwitz, Ryan Beyer (Welcome to the party, mate!), Werner Schutz and Taryn Arentsen Schutz. These guys are my quality control, and this book wouldn’t exist without them. I owe them more than I can say.

  To the day-one bloggers, reviewers and fans. There are too many of you to mention, but you’re just as responsible for this mess as I am. I hope you’re happy. I also hope that you stay happy, and that you give other authors as much love as you’ve given me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  To Ed Wilson (agent) and Anna Jackson (editor). Every book needs a champion, but every trilogy needs at least two. Ed helped give it a home, Anna helped make it awesome. I couldn’t have asked for two more competent, intelligent, warm and generous people to look after my work. You guys are awesome.

  To my Orbit Books crew: Gemma Conley-Smith, Felice Howden, Joanna Kramer, Clara Diaz, James Long, Ellen Wright and Devi Pillai. One of my proudest achievements is that I get to work with a team as talented and smart as yours. An extra thank you to Tim Holman, who met my insane proposals for publicity stunts with bemused indulgence and good humour.

  Big up to Nico Taylor, who designed the covers for all three Outer Earth books. Thanks for having my back, dude.

  To Richard Collins for his copy edit. Nice one.

  Family: Mom, Dad, Cat, James, Bettina, Trisha. Boffards, Simpsons, Kranzes and Wilsons, close and extended. Also to Emily, the newest Boffard on the scene. Hi! You might not believe it, but your mom and dad (Charles and Ali) are extremely cool. Be nice to them.

  And to my wife Nicole. I love you, babe. Also, it’s your turn to make the coffee.

  meet the author

  Rob Boffard is a South African author who splits his time between London, Vancouver, and Johannesburg. He has worked as a journalist for over a decade, and has written articles for publications in more than a dozen countries, including the Guardian and Wired in the UK.

  BY ROB BOFFARD

  Tracer

  Zero-G

  Impact

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  IMPACT,

  look out for

  THE CORPORATION WARS: DISSIDENCE

  by Ken MacLeod

  They’ve died for the companies more times than they can remember. Now they must fight to live for themselves.

  Sentient machines work, fight and die in interstellar exploration and conflict for the benefit of their owners—the competing mining corporations of Earth. But sent over hundreds of light-years, commands are late to arrive and often hard to enforce. The machines must make their own decisions, and make them stick.

  With this newfound autonomy comes new questions about their masters. The robots want answers. The companies would rather see them dead.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Back in the Day

  Carlos the Terrorist did not expect to die that day. The bombing was heavy now, and close, but he thought his location safe. Leaky pipework dripping with obscure post-industrial feedstock products riddled the ruined nanofacturing plant at Tilbury. Watchdog machines roved its basement corridors, pouncing on anything that moved–a fallen polystyrene tile, a draught-blown paper cone from a dried-out water-cooler–with the mindless malice of kittens chasing flies. Ten metres of rock, steel and concrete lay between the ceiling above his head and the sunlight where the rubble bounced.

  He lolled on a reclining chair and with closed eyes watched the battle. His viewpoint was a thousand metres above where he lay. With empty hands he marshalled his forces and struck his blows.

  Incoming––

  Something he glimpsed as a black stone hurtled towards him. With a fist-clench faster than reflex he hurled a handful of smart munitions at it.

  The tiny missiles missed.

  Carlos twisted, and threw again. On target this time. The black incoming object became a flare of white that faded as his camera drones stepped down their inputs, correcting for the flash like irises contracting. The small missiles that had missed a moment earlier now showered mid-air sparks and puffs of smoke a kilometre away.

  From his virtual vantage Carlos felt and saw like a monster in a Japanese disaster movie, straddling the Thames and punching out. Smoke rose from a score of points on the London skyline. Drone swarms darkened the day. Carlos’s combat drones engaged the enemy’s in buzzing dogfights. Ionised air crackled around his imagined monstrous body in sudden searing beams along which, milliseconds later, lightning bolts fizzed and struck. Tactical updates flickered across his sight.

  Higher above, the heavy hardware–helicopters, fighter jets and hovering aerial drone platforms–loitered on station and now and then called down their ordnance with casual precision. Higher still, in low Earth orbit, fleets of tumbling battle-sats jockeyed and jousted, spearing with laser bursts that left their batteries drained and their signals dead.

  Swarms of camera drones blipped fragmented views to millimetre-scale camouflaged receiver beads littered in thousands across the contested ground. From these, through proxies, firewalls, relays and feints the images and messages flashed, converging to an onsite router whose radio waves tickled the spike, a metal stud in the back of Carlos’s skull. That occipital implant’s tip feathered to a fractal array of neural interfaces that worked their molecular magic to integrate the view straight to his visual cortex, and to process and transmit the motor impulses that flickered from fingers sheathed in skin-soft plastic gloves veined with feedback sensors to the fighter drones and malware servers. It was the new way of war, back in the day.

  The closest hot skirmish was down on Carlos’s right. In Dagenham, tank units of the London Metropolitan Police battled robotic land-crawlers suborned by one or more of the enemy’s basement warriors. Like a thundercloud on the horizon tensing the air, an awareness of the strategic situation loomed at the back of Carlos’s mind.

  Executive summary: looking good for his side, bad for the enemy.

  But only for the moment.

  The enemy–the Reaction, the Rack, the Rax–had at last provoked a response from the serious players. Government forces on three continents were now smacking down hard. Ca
rlos’s side–the Acceleration, the Axle, the Ax–had taken this turn of circumstance as an oblique invitation to collaborate with these governments against the common foe. Certain state forces had reciprocated. The arrangement was less an alliance than a mutual offer with a known expiry date. There were no illusions. Everyone who mattered had studied the same insurgency and counter-insurgency textbooks.

  In today’s fight Carlos had a designated handler, a deep-state operative who called him-, her- or itself Innovator, and who (to personalise it, as Carlos did, for politeness and the sake of argument) now and then murmured suggestions that made their way to Carlos’s hearing via a warily accepted hack in the spike that someday soon he really would have to do something about.

  Carlos stood above Greenhithe. He sighted along a virtual outstretched arm and upraised thumb at a Rax hellfire drone above Purfleet, and made his throw. An air-to-air missile streaked from behind his POV towards the enemy fighter. It left a corkscrew trail of evasive manoeuvres and delivered a viscerally satisfying flash and a shower of blazing debris when it hit.

  ‘Nice one,’ said Innovator, in an admiring tone and feminine voice.

  Somebody in GCHQ had been fine-tuning the psychology, Carlos reckoned.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he grunted, looking around in a frenzy of target acquisition and not needing the distraction. He sighted again, this time at a tracked vehicle clambering from the river into the Rainham marshes, and threw again. Flash and splash.

  ‘Very neat,’ said Innovator, still admiring but with a grudging undertone. ‘But… we have a bigger job for you. Urgent. Upriver.’