by Sam A. Patel
“That’s the real dedication to parkour. Sure, for some it is just about the money and the competition, but for me it’s always been about reaching for the sky. That’s what PK is all about. That’s why I do it. Dexter too.” When I turn back to Red Tail I notice her smile. She’s smiling at me. And not because I’ve just said something funny either. It isn’t that kind of smile. “Um…” I check my thin screen awkwardly. “In ten meters there should be an access tunnel on the left.”
“Got it. So if parkour is its own reward, how does that jibe with being a data runner?”
“Well, even traceurs have to eat. But the way I see it, I’m not exploiting parkour to do what I do. I just do what I do and let parkour be a natural extension of who I am. If that gives me an edge on the sneakernet, it’s only because I’m being me.”
“How long do you plan to do it for?”
“I figure two years. Save up enough money to go to NEIT.”
She raises her brow. “Wow. I wish I could go to a school like that. Financially, I mean.”
I know what she means. Red Tail is wicked smart. There’s no way she wouldn’t ace the entrance exams. “You could. There’s nothing stopping you.”
But she shakes her head. “I’m doing this to help support my family. Getting out of the squatter settlements isn’t the hard part, it’s staying out. Unfortunately, college just isn’t in the cards for someone like me.”
“But don’t you feel like you’re missing something?”
“Not really. There isn’t a single thing I’d be studying in school that I can’t learn on my own anyway. And I do. When I’m not running, I’m always scouting the university portals for courses that sound interesting. Then I grab the syllabus and reading list and do the work on my own. The only thing I don’t get is a grade.”
No wonder she’s so smart. Red Tail is an autodidact: a self-taught student.
“But when I am running, the stuff I learn out here in the field is invaluable. What you and I are doing right now, that’s something you can’t find in any course catalog. That’s something you don’t get with a degree.”
“There is the utilitarian value of a degree,” I offer.
Red Tail shrugs. “In a good month I make more money than most people with a degree. Granted, most of it is hazard pay. I still consider myself lucky.” She takes a long moment to shine her torch down the access tunnel before we turn into it. “Trust me, it beats picking pockets for a living.”
“I guess for me, school was just always the plan.”
“Well, sometimes the plan changes,” she says, “and you just have to adapt.”
Speaking of adapting, the layout shows us just outside the perimeter of BF-117. I flip my thin screen to show Red Tail. She motions with her finger to her lips that we should move forward in silence. I agree. We switch to hand signals and proceed down the tunnel.
22
Manhole covers are much heavier than you’d think, especially when you’re trying to remove one with your shoulder from the top of a very long shaft ladder.
I try to lift it off gently but can’t get leverage without my feet slipping. The rungs are all rusty and wet, which is a very dangerous combination. I try again. This time my feet slip off the rung entirely and it is only the well-calloused grip of my parkour hands that keeps me from dropping straight down onto Red Tail and sending us both plummeting down the shaft.
There’s no point even trying it a third time. I really didn’t want to have to do it like this, but at this point it’s the only way the cover is coming off.
I tell Red Tail to move down a few rungs. Keep going. And even a few more. Until I have enough room to get a good running start. I launch upwards with everything I have. Climb the ladder, gaining speed with every rung. I hunch my shoulder and plow straight through the top like a vertical linebacker. The cast iron disk flies off. All I can do is cringe as I watch it flip through the air as if in slow motion, until it crashes onto the asphalt with a resonating clash. I look down. Red Tail’s wide blue eyes stare up at me with horror and disbelief. I know she’s right, but it couldn’t be helped. I offer a shrug to let her know that.
I duck back into the hole and wait for any alarms to go off.
They don’t.
I pop back up for a peek.
Nothing.
I give Red Tail the signal to move on.
Snake has gone over everything in meticulous detail. Since BF-117 is a training zone and not an actual base, Blackburn keeps it under minimal guard when not in use. Usually those guards are stationed near the water, around the cluster of warehouses where actual equipment is being stored, or to guard any ships that happen to be docked at the time. Those are the red areas that we should avoid at all cost. The rest of the facility is basically just a combat stage that is swept at regular intervals, and we’ve got their schedule.
Red Hook looks and feels exactly like a video game. Everything has been placed. Like the nondescript white van parked in front of an old storefront that is way too suspicious not to be a trap in some training exercise—hostage taker, getaway vehicle, IED. It’s there for a reason, as is every abandoned vehicle parked up and down the street, and the wastebaskets filled with just enough trash to potentially conceal something, and the Consolidated mailbox that isn’t on anyone’s route. The purpose of all this stuff is to keep training soldiers on their toes.
The building where Dexter is being held is only a few blocks away, but since our plan is to come in from above, the first thing we have to do is get off street level. It’s fifty meters from the manhole to the alley, but we make it without incident. Red Tail unzips her bag and produces a grappling hook launcher and winch. She unfolds it and locks it open, loads a dart into the barrel and attaches a spindle of climbing rope to the side of the launcher. She raises it to her eye and aims the unit just over the top of the building, then places her finger over the trigger. A laser measures the distance and mechanically adjusts the firing range. The orange glow around the eyesight turns green, and a split-second later she squeezes the trigger.
I expect some kind of blast when it fires, but the dampers on this unit work surprisingly well. They should, considering this is military-grade equipment. The dart takes off like a rocket carrying a trail of rope behind it, sails straight up into the night, arcs over the ledge of the building, and lands on the other side. Then comes the part we don’t see. The impact causes the dart’s cap to blow off and triggers the release claws into the rooftop. Now the winch kicks in, taking up the slack until the rope is taut. Red Tail puts her weight on it to make sure the rope is secure before she detaches the winch from the launcher and hooks it into the harness built into her jumpsuit.
Clearly she thinks I’m going up the same way once she gets to the top and lowers it back down. What she doesn’t know is that I’m already there. I grab the kit bag and sling it over her shoulder, and before she can even wonder what I’m doing, I run straight for the wall and Tic-Tac up to the fire escape. Dexter probably could have gotten enough lift to grab the top of the hand rail, which would have made for a much easier muscle up, but I only have enough reach to grab the bottom, so I have to kick off the wall and pull up with everything I have, conserving all my momentum as I cat-grab the upper railing, muscle up, and swing my feet over before gravity can take over.
My feet hit the landing just as Red Tail overtakes me, but it’s still six more floors to the top.
I gain an edge racing up the fire escape for two more floors until the whole thing begins to lean precariously from having been ripped away from the building. I leap off the railing. Push off a window ledge. Catch the buckle of a drainage pipe and use that to launch myself up.
The trick is to keep going. Keep moving. You have to maintain your momentum. Momentum is balance and maneuverability. Just like riding a bike—the faster you go, the better you balance, the better you maneuver. That’s why you never let yourself stop because if you stop, you lose it all. If you stop,
you become dead weight, and the crippling hold of gravity will take you over. Then you have to exert far more of yourself just to get moving again. Every time you stop, you have to start all over again. So you keep moving.
I can feel Red Tail watching me as I climb past the point where the fire escape has been ripped in half. Poise my toe on the next buckle and jump from the pipe. Push off the window ledge. Grab the railing and vault over like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Keep climbing. When I get to the top, I hop onto the railing and launch straight up. Cat-grab the top of the building. Muscle up. Roll across the ledge and land on my feet, on the roof. All of this happens seven floors up, but you can’t think about that when you’re climbing. You can’t think about the fall.
If you want to fly… if you really want to fly… you have to take every leap like it’s just two feet off the ground.
I get to the roof with just enough of a lead to help Red Tail over the top. With her feet flat on the ground, she just looks at me with a kind of dumbfounded bewilderment as she curls her hand and scurries it across the air. Hand signals aside, I can practically hear her voice in my head, as clearly as if she’d said it out loud. What are you, some kind of hamster?
Come on, I wave.
We cross the roof and arrive at the first of four gap jumps, each about four feet across. The first thing Red Tail does is look over the edge, straight down the side of the building until the vertigo makes her step back. Now it’s unavoidable. I have to break our silence.
“You can do this,” I whisper. “Forget about the height. It’s just like running on the ground. Jumping over puddles to keep your feet from getting wet. Don’t give it a second thought. And whatever happens, don’t hesitate. Insist on the jump or don’t do it at all.”
She nods.
“Do you want to go first?” I ask.
“No,” she says. I can tell she’s apprehensive. Apprehensive but not afraid. “Let’s do it together.”
I throw our bags over to the next rooftop and move back to join Red Tail, who has given herself way more head start than is needed. Too much actually. Too much time to think. Too much room between her and the ledge to contemplate the jump. I know this because I’ve been where she is right now. With Dex by my side, I have been in her shoes exactly. I nudge her forward several steps to close the distance until we have enough room to gain full speed but not enough to slow down afterward. When we’re in position, I take her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. “Remember,” I say. “There are no limits, only plateaus.”
She nods.
“Go!”
I take off, pulling her with me, running with her hand still in mine so she has to run just to keep up. I only let go when I’m satisfied she’s with me.
We plant together.
Launch simultaneously.
Sail across the gap like two birds in flight.
Clear the other ledge with feet to spare.
Stick the landing and roll out.
Before Red Tail even has a chance to process it, I gather up our bags and shuffle her across the rooftop to the next gap. I throw the bags over, step back to where she’s waiting for me—perfect distance this time—take her hand and pull her forward again.
Once again we sail over the gap.
The third time I don’t need to take her hand. She manages it on her own.
The fourth time it’s almost as if her body takes over. Not muscle memory just yet, but she’ll get there.
The final distance we have to cross is not a gap between two buildings; it’s a major avenue between two blocks, and there’s no jumping that chasm. But at least now we have our target in sight. If our intel is correct, across the way is the redbrick building where Dexter is being held. Not as tall as the building under our feet but much larger in spread. It’s nearly half a block in size with multiple entrances on each side. The oversized arched windows indicate three floors.
“What is that?” I ask as I tear open an energy bar. I offer one to Red Tail but she doesn’t need it. She isn’t carrying cargo.
“It looks like an old public school.”
She’s right. That’s exactly what it looks like.
Red Tail pulls out the harpoon gun and inserts another dart and spool. Only this dart isn’t a hook but a bolt, and this spool isn’t climbing rope but zip line. She aims it just as she did before. The gun self-adjusts. Red Tail fires the dart in relative silence. The projectile sails across the distance with the zip line in tow and drives itself into the brick just above a third floor window. Red Tail removes the spool from the harpoon gun and secures the line to the ledge. Then she pulls out another dart.
“What’s that one?”
“It’s just a slug.”
“What’s it for?”
She loads it into the gun. “Get ready. This is going to make some noise.”
I grab one of the pulleys from out of the kit bag.
“You have to—”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” It’s just a flying fox. We had one of those on the playground when I was growing up. This is kid’s stuff. I fasten the strap around my wrist and give the release button a quick test before locking it onto the line.
“Wait, you’re holding it back—”
The instant my feet leave the ledge I realize what she was about to say. My hand is pointing the wrong way, so when I cartwheel around the line and start my run, I’m facing the wrong way. “Crap!”
Zipping ass-backwards down the line, all I see is Red Tail standing on the ledge of the building with her arms out and palms up utterly perplexed by what I have just done. She quickly positions the harpoon gun. This time she doesn’t bother with the adjustment mechanism, she just points and shoots.
The slug torpedoes past my ear with a high-pitch wind…and a moment later…blows out the window some distance behind me.
Halfway across the street means I’m halfway there, but I’m going to need Red Tail to tell me when I’m about to hit so I can release. It has to be just right. Too early I’ll end up flat on the sidewalk, too late and I’ll hit the building. Red Tail knows this and is giving me the signal to hold tight. Beneath me I see curb. The building must be close. But still no sign from Red Tail.
Until suddenly her fist becomes three fingers.
And I brace…
Two.
…for…
One.
…IMPACT.
I release the pulley a split-second before my crouched back strikes the busted window. Fly through. Fall backwards for what seems like a bigger drop than it really is. Strike the hardwood floor in a shower of broken glass that tinkles like wind chimes as it rains down all around me.
Until everything settles.
By now it’s just instinct—the first thing I do is check my arm to make sure the cortex chip is okay. It is. I get to my feet and look around. It appears to be an old classroom, but before I can process any details, I hear the incoming trolley carrying our gear. I go to the window and catch it just as it arrives, unhook the carabiner, and clear the pulley off the zip line for Red Tail. She is poised on the ledge waiting for me to give her the go ahead, but before I do, I look around the room once more. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. I listen for footsteps. There are none.
I turn back to the window and give her the all clear.
By the time we bust open the door to the storage room where Dexter is being kept, I know we’re in trouble. There isn’t a guard in sight, not even a sentry posted outside his door. There isn’t a single other person in the building. And then there’s the look on Dexter’s bruised face when he sees us. It’s not relief.
“Damn, Jack. I thought you would figure it out.”
“Figure what out?”
“This,” he says indicating our surroundings. I’m pretty sure he’s referring not just to the school but to the entire Red Hook facility.
“If you’re talking about this being a trap, we know.”
“And you came anyway?
”
“We have a plan.”
Dexter catches sight of Red Tail. Gives her a once-over from head to toe. Grins. “So this is the girl?”
Red Tail cocks her head. “I’m the girl.”
“We can powwow later,” I say as I hand Dexter a jumpsuit.
He quickly shakes it out and puts it on. “This better be some plan.”
“I’ll let you know tomorrow.” I check Dexter’s heat signature. It’s been reduced to a faint blip by the aluminized microfiber, just like ours.
From this point on we’ll need full mobility. I already have everything I need in my backpack. Red Tail takes whatever she might need in her shoulder bag. Dexter scrounges through the rest to grab a few things he thinks could be useful. The rest we leave behind in the storage closet. I give Dexter the rundown. Not the full details, just the gist of it. Red Tail is going to get him out.
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
“I’m going to draw their fire.”
Dexter is visibly averse to this plan.
“Dex, they’re coming after me either way, whether I come out with you or on my own. Running solo is the best chance I have of getting away clean.”
Dexter still doesn’t like it, but he can’t argue with the logic. I may be pulling the most dangerous part of it, but it is the most practical plan. He puts up a fist. “No limits.”
I bump it hard. “Only plateaus.”
An explosion rocks the old school. It is way too big to be a door being blown off its hinges. Maybe a hole being blown through the side of the building. Something along those lines.
“Um, guys…I hate to interrupt this little reunion but we really have to go.”
“Watch your back, Jack,” says Dexter as we part company.
