by Ren Warom
Without a pass, their single workable option for getting to the shuttle is climbing some couple of thousand meters to those lit windows and breaking in. Amiga contemplates the insurmountable and sighs.
“I hope you brought your bag,” she says to Deuce. “Though I am telling you, we need more than one rappel kit to get everyone up this.”
He shifts Shock in his arms and raises a brow at her. “I’m going to suggest you take Tracker up. I have one rappel kit with two harnesses. You raise hell whilst he pinpoints the tablet. Then you grab the tablet whilst he gets the front doors open for us. We’ll take a shoot to the roof and meet you there.”
“But…”
“But nothing.” He shrugs his bag off carefully, turning so she can take it. “Get going.”
Catching his eye, she yanks him down for a short, hard kiss, then turns to the Hornets. “Anyone have any spare guns or sharp things?”
The amount they produce is heartening, stolen from the suddenly dead soldiers as they ran through the bodies. Sneaky Hornets. Maybe it’s about time she started to properly appreciate them. Probably long past time…
Strapping on as many weapons as she can without impeding her ability to move freely, Amiga takes out Deuce’s rappel, much chunkier than any she usually rocks, and fires it up the side of the ’scraper, aiming for the floor above the lit one. There’s a jolt as the head of the rappel lands and rams itself deep into the concrete fascia, splaying out to hold on tight.
They’re going to see that by the light of day, a nasty scar in the pretty corporate visage of polished concrete. What a damn shame.
Clicking the rappel gun on to her belt, Amiga straps herself into one harness and chucks the other to Tracker. Pressing the button, she gives in to the pressure of the rope, running lightly toward and up the side of the building feeling the rope at her back dip and tug as Tracker follows suit.
Perched like a spider on the floor above the lighted window she pulls out a small scanner from Deuce’s backpack; his bag of tricks. It’s basic gear, battery-powered, but nothing else will work at the moment, not with access to Slip cut off as it is and rapidly diminishing access to any other power sources. The scanner provides both good news and bad. Good news is alarms up on the lighted floor but not elsewhere, standard practice in such backroom type deals. Bad news is the guards patrolling in groups of three on the floor they’re about to gain entry to. A touch overkill there. The difficulty of getting in to this building and the lack of people on the streets below at this hour should inspire greater confidence. None more paranoid than people making to do bad shit with other people’s flim.
Tracker checks the screen over her shoulder. “Sneak and peek,” he whispers.
“Aye, aye.”
Popping on her gloves, she cracks the window open to slip inside, soft as a shadow, Tracker following as if he’s hers. Guy’s a tech wiz who acts like an assassin. She wishes she’d met him sooner. Wishes she’d met a load more of the Hornets sooner. Especially ones who’ve given their lives for this shit—nothing sucks like losing parts of a family you’ve never fully acknowledged before you’ve even managed to learn their surnames or their favourite fucking music.
Switching the scanner to seek out body heat only, they head for the corridor, timing a race for the stairs between the orange and blue-hued blobs of guards on the scanner screen. Down the stairs and on to the floor below, they try the same again, seeking a clear route to the conference rooms between patrols of guards, but this floor has four times as many patrols. No way they can hit the meeting without being intercepted at several points.
She looks at Tracker, who raises a brow, points at the nearest team, then to himself, and draws a finger across his throat. He points to the next, to her and does the same. She grins. Damn right. The only way to find a way through this clusterfuck is to make one. Counting down from three, they move out in opposite directions. Deciding to go quiet, Amiga takes her three out with a thin knife at the back of the head. Minimal bleeding. The only problem then is hiding them for long enough to take out the other patrols.
Taking a few seconds to break into a darkened office, she grabs the leg of the first one to drag him in but it feels like her lung is going to explode and she’s in no hurry to go through anything like that again, especially not when it’s Ravi who’ll glue her back together. Last time she pissed him off by being stupid with her mortality— shooting Twist dead through this very aching lung like an idiot—he made her throw up what felt like a week’s worth of food as some kind of doctorly punishment. Not. Fun. Change of plan then. Leave the fuckers here. She has enough time to take out the rest before they discover them—if she moves fast enough.
So that’s what she does. Three minutes later she spies Tracker coming in the opposite direction. He lifts a hand, gives the okay symbol and smiles. Floor’s clear. Boom. Job done.
Have to assume they were in IM-link with teams on other floors, she says.
Time is limited, he agrees. You get on to the conference room, I’ll go open the doors.
Which tablet do we need?
One with this app on it. Hit the room with a passcode pulse to unlock them all. He throws an image and a set of simple instructions into her drive. Deuce’s tablet is set for all this shit, all you have to do is tap in that exact sequence.
Got it.
Tossing over the backpack with Deuce’s tricks, Amiga races for the conference rooms, clutching the tablet. Falls flat on her arse skidding to a halt before she reaches them, causing all manner of super interesting reaction ripples in her stuck together flesh and organs. Waking up tomorrow is going to be one hell of a bitch.
“You are shitting me,” she whispers through gritted teeth, feeling pretty damn murderous to be honest, because really?
The room is glass. A box of fucking glass flanked by glass boxes on both sides, all the way along the ’scraper.
After today she never wants to see glass again.
What the fuck does she do now?
All out of sensible options, Amiga goes for broke as usual. Taking a big old gulp of stale, re-cycled back-up generator air into her complaining lungs—well, one’s complaining, the other’s just pissed off—she does a silent backwards count from five. On one, she tricks herself by moving before she can give the signal to go, a tactic from early in her career when facing down possible or certain death still gave her momentary and quite fucking annoying crises of movement.
This way, before her mind can acknowledge what the hell her dumbass body is doing, she’s in the room firing. No one here is armed, but the fact that she didn’t need to kill them only seems to hit after it’s already done and she stands there for a moment, horrified, until it occurs that more guards will be along pron to and she best hustle a damn tablet. Fishing out Deuce’s tablet, she taps out the passcode break. Frowns. Should there be a noise? Something?
Moving around the table, she checks out the tablets. They’re all unlocked. No sound then. Whatever. Finding the one they need, she looks up, straight into the eyes of a guard patrol staring in at the carnage. As their eyes meet, the guards scramble for their guns.
“Fucking terrific,” she snaps.
Turning, she checks out the windows. Her rope isn’t here. It’s several windows to the left, out of sight. Out of this glass box and through two others if she wants to pay attention to the details. But details are for sensible people. Idiots like her? All they need is a dumb idea, a vague notion, and a bit of a head start. Already running, she shoots out the left wall of the room and runs through, hissing as shards pierce her clothes; shooting out the next wall before she’s through. It’s messy. Inadequate. But time is not her friend.
The smashes are actually deafening, leaving her unable to hear much but the muffled shouts of guards panicking as they all change direction and sprint to follow. They reach the door of the room her rope is outside of as she slams through the hole in the glass, covered in shards and glistening. She raises her gun. Fires. Turns to smile. And races for
ward as they shove in to the boardroom and start shooting at her.
This time, bullets graze past her ribs, gouging out stinging runnels, which is just peachy, but her luck was bound to run out. She’s been dodging bullets her whole life.
The windows to the sides of her exit route explode outward too, mauling her traumatized ears. There’s a whoosh as she flies out into the cold, replacing the dull shouts of guards and gunfire retorts with the roar of air pressure. In that perfect state of panic that expects the rope not to be there she reaches out blindly, immersed in a dizzying rush of adrenal relief when her hand hits rough cord and grabs.
Controlling the wild swing to the side, Amiga holds on for dear life to both tablets as she crashes toward stone and anchors in, feet splayed. Winding the rope around her arm, she reattaches her harness, leans forward, presses the button and runs up to the rappel claw as bullets ricochet past in the dark, some of them yet again grazing stinging runnels in her flesh.
Back at the claw, Amiga tucks the tablets into her jacket, zipping it up to her throat. Bracing on the ledge then, both feet wedged in but good, she grabs the exposed back of the claw and begins to yank it back and forth. Five lung-wrenching tries later the claw dislodges, earning her a face-full of concrete dust and chunks and damn near throwing her to her death.
She clutches her chest, reassured by the hard edges of the tablets. “Fuck. Me.”
Thanking past Amiga for thinking to keep hold of it, she unclicks the rappel gun from her belt and rams the claw back into the firing apparatus. Leaning back far enough to make her body think it might fall, inducing that tiny surge of liquid adrenalin panic, she fires the claw up into the darkness blind, hoping to fuck it somehow finds roof.
The distant thunk is reassuring.
Amiga tugs the rope. Clicks her harness to it and lifts her feet to hang her weight from it, closing her eyes as it jolts then holds, vibrating a little.
“Good enough.”
Throwing caution to the wind—again, but where else is she going to throw it?—Amiga presses the button. Fifty, fifty chance she’ll end up on the roof or on the ground. Fantastic odds.
* * *
“I should start gambling,” she says to Tracker, waiting for her on the roof, as she climbs over, ignoring the bitching of her body. The scores from bullets are already burning. Odds are her tee’s going to stick solid. She’s going to have to find a bath to soak in before changing. Ripping skin off is not fun.
“Oh?”
“I’m on a streak.” Amiga unhooks. Together they yank out the claw and reel in the rope to coil it up for Deuce’s backpack. “Where are the others?”
“On the way in the shoot. You were quick.”
She blinks. “That did not feel quick.”
“Perception tends to go screwy when there are bullets involved.”
“You heard that?”
Tracker chuckles. “Woman, everyone in the fucking building heard that. And the glass. So much glass. We’re leaving this place with a tasty repair bill.”
The door to the roof flies open and Deuce comes racing through, yelling, with Shock over his shoulder and the other Hornets on his heels. Behind them the sound of shouts and guns—always fucking guns—echoes up the stairs. Amiga gives them her saltiest glare, borrowed from Shareen, because dammit she had game.
“You couldn’t come quietly?”
“It’s not like you went stealth-mode!” Deuce throws a look like a double-headed axe. “It was your noise had them on the alert.”
She slaps the tablet into his hands, making it crystal exactly what all that noise she made was about. “You’re welcome. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“What about the pilot?”
Amiga pulls out a knife as they pound roof to the shuttle. “I’m going to ask for a lift really politely.”
PART TWO
The Stars My Destination
Hustling her team on board the shuttle as the doors of the hangar shake and rattle, Vivid’s unable to resist throwing a look over her shoulder. It feels wrong to leave the others behind. Like a betrayal. So many armed troops behind the glass, waiting to take them down. The odds keep shrinking on them, and every time it’s sheer luck more of them don’t die.
At the very least Shock should be with them here, on the way out. Little as she likes it, he’s the asset, and they’ve committed to his protection, not just because of the things he’s done, but because he’s a Hornet—maybe the weirdest Hornet of all barring EVaC, but a Hornet nonetheless. Family. If only there was time to go get him, but if there was there’d be time to get the others too. They’re always, always out of fucking time.
Grabbing the handle, she pulls the door shut.
“Who can fly a shuttle?”
From the tangle of Hornets filling the body of the shuttle, KJ squeaks, “Literally the wrong moment to find out we have no one to fly this fucking thing.”
“I might be able to. I’ve had hours in a sim.” Prism. Vivid likes Prism, but she’s too new. Inexperienced. What choice do they have though? No one else is speaking up.
“It’s all yours. Just get us out of here.”
Minutes later, when the engines roar and the force of lift-off shoves her back into her seat, Viv finds herself reassessing her opinion of Prism. Girl’s A-one at translating sim skills to RL. Flight’s not pure smooth, and her navigation’s a little off at first, but with some assistance from Whip, their resident cartography geek, she gets them on the right flight path, headed out for the hubs. Away from home.
Once they’re stabilized, Viv releases her harness and moves to the window. They’re already too far from Hunin and the hangar to see what’s happening. She has to rein in the urge to IM. IM is easy as thinking, but the Hornets still on the ground need all their attention on escape, she’d only be an unwelcome distraction. Right now they’re solving the equation of too little ammo, too many of their enemies and no fucking shuttle.
A whole heap of ugly trouble.
The Hornets are made for trouble, if only they could catch a break from it. A brief pause for air. Not that she’d take back the last month or so. No way. She’d take back all the Hornets they’ve lost for sure, but standing against the tyranny of Fulcrum, of Queens, and being the thing between hell and high water and holding both back? She’d do that time and again. It felt damn good, even if all it brought them was a world of fucking pain.
Pain is fleeting. It passes. That’s the definition of a bearable price.
Viv’s never been away from the Gung. Never been on a shuttle. This far up, the Gung is a sea of blue lights, muted and delicate. A bioluminescent dreamscape far from the suffocating reality. She tries not to imagine how beautiful it would look with the gold of avis wound through it. Has to suck in hard to hold back on tears. It’s too fresh, too raw. Feels like an actual wound. Her heart aches for Sea Cow, her avi. All she wants is to reach after her and tear the cage from around her.
Below, small flashes fizzle up like fireworks.
“Are those shuttles?” KJ. His face right next to hers.
She flings her arm around his shoulder and pulls him in so their cheeks mash together. “Probably. You okay, shug?”
He chokes out a laugh. “Nope. I hope Gail’s not dead. I want my avi back. I want to go to sleep and wake up like Groundhog Day. Do it all over again without the fuckery. Mostly? I want to not have dragged you into Hunin like an idiot, because I think this shit is my fault.”
She leans away to study his face. “What?”
“Weird Chinese dad clothes guy,” he says, looking downright miserable.
“Say again?”
“Hell no. Mouthful. Basically, creepy guy at the bar who seemed way too interested. I thought he was a creepy oldster with a penchant for sweet young thangs, of which I am naturally one, but then Shandong goes up like a volcano in a bad mood and suddenly my head’s throwing all kinds of unfortunate math at me.”
“You serious?”
“Hon, I am serious as the
mess on my chest. I am so sorry. This shit is all my fault.”
She shakes her head. “Denied. No way of being sure, and even if it was, we weren’t the first to go blow steam in Hunin’s clubs and we wouldn’t have been the last.”
“That’s a flimsy ass excuse.”
“All excuses are flimsy, Knee Jerk. We grab ’em because we need ’em. You need this. Take it and run. For real. We were never going to be granted a stay of execution.” She hugs him close again. “I’m happier doing this, going in head on, fists at the ready. Feels active, not passive. Hiding felt too much like the old days, and we went through hell to change that.”
He leans his head on her shoulder. “You’re too good to me.”
“You want me to be a bitch?”
“Hell no. Pamper me. Bring me gifts. Provide me with airtight alibis for all my enemy-removal needs. I’m so not complaining.” He sighs. “Think they got away?”
“They better have, or I’ll fucking kill them myself.”
They stay by the window, staring out, as the earth, all dark ocean rippled with foam disappears behind clouds. Through the clouds, they emerge to stars, the ghost-lit wasteland of white beneath making a stark contrast. This high up, the nearest hubs look like baubles perched weightless above the clouds, lights off and glowing blue. To the other side, near the risen sun, they’ll be bright.
Vivid wonders what life is like up there. Probably the same, rich or poor. Circumstances really are everything.
“Shuttles coming up fast at our rear,” Prism calls from the cockpit. “I’m not sure what to do.”
“Whip?”
“No way to hide up here and we want hubs currently hours away from this location. Only viable option is to use the nearest hub to slingshot us away from here and closer to the hubs we need.”
“What’s closest?”
