by Rob Boffard
I put my hand on his. “You know it.”
They head out. Pulling the chair up to a screen, I call up our database.
Back when I was just a tracer, I thought I knew a lot about how the stompers worked – I’d tangled with them often enough. But I didn’t know about their database. The official name for it is SCRD – Station Criminal Records Database, as the logo flashing up in front of me says – but you won’t find a stomper on the station who calls it that. To us, it’s just the Wall of Shame.
Aware of Royo hovering, I tap the name ‘Mikhail’ into the system. It’s not a lot to go on, but as the results pop up, blinking onto the screen one after another, it becomes clear that there are only a handful on the station. It takes me no more than a few seconds before I’m looking at the right one – that snide face framed with greasy hair is impossible to miss.
“Mikhail Yeremin,” says Royo from over my shoulder, making me jump. He scans the rest of the information – what little there is. “Forty-six years old, born Tzevya sector, no known kin. Dock worker. That’s the thing about the Wall, Hale. It hardly gives you anything useful. He’s only in the system because he’s been arrested before.” He leans in closer. “Water racket.”
Royo taps his knuckle twice on Mikhail’s picture, accidentally making it full-screen.
“Stop that,” I say, minimising the picture.
Royo clears his throat. “Sorry. I’ll leave you to your detective work.”
I stay on Mikhail’s entry until I can see that Royo is absorbed with what he’s doing – giving another stomper hell, it looks like – and then I bring up the search bar. I tap KNOX, MORGAN into it and hit Go.
Until now I’ve been focused on doing what Knox says. What if I can find something on him? A weak spot I can use? Not that I’m holding out much hope. I’m almost certain that he won’t be in the system.
But, to my surprise, there’s an entry – and the Wall has far more on Knox than it did on Mikhail.
I scan the words. Knox, Morgan Joseph. Forty-two years old, born in New Germany. Qualified as a medic from the sector hospital at age twenty-two, specialising in musculoskeletal surgery. Assigned to work in Medical Unit 262, wherever that is. And he has a record: stole drugs from the same hospital he qualified at. It’s recent – no more than a few months ago. Spent a few days in the brig, medical licence revoked. Last known habitation is a corridor code close to where his current surgery is. No known kin. Arresting officer: Royo, Samuel.
I glance over at Royo. He’s talking with another stomper, bent over one of the desks. The only person I know who’s had contact with my nemesis, and he may as well be a million light years away.
The idea unrolls itself slowly. What if I could take Knox out of action from afar? Once he’s in the brig, he won’t have that remote any more.
Putting out an arrest warrant for Morgan Knox is the work of a few taps. So is entering the last place I saw him, and the reason for the warrant – drug trafficking, of course. I punch in the corridor and level location, and sit back, exhaling deeply. There. At some point today, a dispatcher will get over SPOCS and ask a couple of stompers to swing by that room of his.
The question is whether he’ll blow the bombs as soon as they do. I don’t think he will, not if I’m still out there. That’s if his threat is actually real in the first place, and he isn’t playing me.
It’s a gamble. But it doesn’t feel like a reckless one.
I stare at the screen, thinking hard. The arrest warrant is a start, but I still need to work on breaking Okwembu out, just in case.
My eye lands on Medical Unit 262. Something about it kicks my mind into gear.
Working quickly, I pull up the location. It’s in the Caves – the run-down, cramped, overcrowded part of the sector that anybody who wasn’t born there tries to stay away from. Kev’s parents live there, but his family aren’t the only people I know in that part of the station. There’s someone else.
He might not know how to take down Knox.
But if it comes to it, he might be able to help me break Okwembu out of prison.
22
Prakesh
The first thing Prakesh sees when he walks into the Air Lab is Suki looking apologetic. The second thing he sees is Han Tseng.
The councilman is standing over by one of the algae pools, his arms folded, a thunderous expression on his face. Prakesh groans inwardly. His sleep was full of ugly dreams, and it’s left him groggy and irritable.
And now he has to deal with Tseng. Great.
No point avoiding it. He squares his shoulders, then walks over. The councilman watches him approach – he’s actually tapping his foot, as if Prakesh is an errant student. Above them, the leaves of the giant oaks move gently in the blowback from the air exchangers.
“Councilman,” says Prakesh.
“No more putting this off, Kumar,” Tseng says. “I want you to show me the new security measures now.”
“You’ve picked a bad day, Sir.” Prakesh keeps walking, moving between the algae pools. “We’ve got test results due in from a new strain of soya, and I have a dozen other things on my desk that need attention.”
“Three months ago, you said you’d be implementing stricter controls,” Tseng says, striding after Prakesh. “Chain-of-custody signatures, technician background checks, closer collaboration with the protection officers.” He ticks each item off on his fingers.
Prakesh has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. “If you make an appointment with Suki, I promise I’ll give you a full briefing.” He looks for Suki, but she’s vanished.
“We can’t afford another robbery,” Tseng says. “The people of this station need to know that it’s unacceptable behaviour.”
That’s one way of putting it, Prakesh thinks. Three months ago, just before Prakesh had his breakthrough with the genetically modified plants, a shipment of food was stolen. In this case, it was a dud batch, a failed experiment, destined for the brigs in each of the station sectors. A group of assailants managed to board the monorail, stop it in the tunnel and make off with several crates of food. Prakesh was amazed that it hadn’t happened sooner.
They never caught the people who did it, and as far as Prakesh was concerned it hardly mattered. With more than enough food for everybody on the station, securing shipments had slipped way down the priority list. But still Tseng had been onto him, demanding that he take steps.
Tseng is still speaking, lecturing him on how to do his job. “Actually,” Prakesh says, cutting the councilman off in mid-flow. “I have a meeting with the local protection officer captain this week. We’ll be addressing these issues.” Thinking: Better make an appointment as soon as this idiot leaves.
Tseng folds his arms. “Really?”
“That’s right.” He places a hand on the councilman’s elbow, starts guiding him back towards the entrance.
“Yes. Well,” Tseng says. “I expect a full report by the end of the week.”
“You got it,” Prakesh says, as they reach the open area by the entrance. The sliding door is twenty feet high, hastily cut through the existing wall. Before Oren Darnell, you got to the Air Lab by going through the equally cavernous Food Lab. That changed when Darnell torched the latter.
The councilman stalks off, not bothering to say goodbye. Prakesh watches him go, then rubs his eyes, massaging away the gritty sleep. He would do anything to blow off today. The thing with Riley is still going round and round in his mind – he can’t understand what got her going last night. He’s never seen her lash out like that before, not at him, anyway …
Raised voices, outside the doors. Prakesh looks round, and sees two stompers talking with Tseng. They’re pointing to the Air Lab, and Prakesh doesn’t like the looks on their faces.
He starts walking, picking up his pace. He’s thirty feet away when Tseng charges towards him, shouting, “Seal the door! Seal it now!”
23
Riley
By the time I get to the Caves, a deep itch
– so ingrained it feels like a part of my body – has set into the backs of my knees. It takes every ounce of will I have not to yank the stitches out.
As I get close, I slow to a jog. My skin crawls at the thought of having to talk to Knox again, but it has to be done. He’ll still be there – I’ve issued arrest warrants before, and they take a while to move through the system.
I turn to what I hope is a dead channel. “Knox,” I say, as quietly as I can. The SPOCS unit hums and clicks in my ear. There’s a burst of static, and then a stomper says, “Come back? Didn’t catch—”
Then Knox’s voice is in my ear, cutting the stomper out. “What?”
“I’m going to get help for the thing you asked me to do,” I say. Then, taking a deep breath: “Someone I think might be able to … you know.”
“No, I don’t think I do,” he says, and his voice is deathly quiet. “My instructions were that you were to tell no one else. You need to learn to listen.”
“I’m serious,” I say, dropping to one knee. There’s a pool of liquid – oil, judging from the colours on its surface – puddling on the floor, and I only narrowly avoid it. “I can’t do it on my own. And I won’t tell him about you, I swear.”
“Who?”
“You won’t know him.”
“Answer the question.”
When I tell him, Knox barks a laugh in my ear. “Him? He’s useless. He’ll never help you.”
“I’m going to ask him anyway.”
“Tell him whatever you want. Just remember: time’s running out, Riley.”
Not if the arrest warrant catches up with you, I think. I rise to my feet, and walk on.
When Amira and I tried to get into the Caves a year ago, we were met with suspicion and bared weapons. They’ve always seen themselves as slightly apart from the rest of the station – anybody who tries to muscle in, any gang that wants to get a foothold, finds themself going home minus a few members and a couple of important body parts.
When Oren Darnell took over the station, Caves drew in on itself, full lockdown. This time, the big metal door – the only way in or out – is wide open. The corridor beyond it is poorly lit, the walls marred with ancient, scabby graffiti.
I step through. A hand comes out of the darkness, grabbing my shoulder.
“Stomper,” says the person attached to the hand. He keeps his face in the shadows.
“I’m not here on stomper business,” I say.
His grip tightens. “Better not be.” He releases me, pushing me backwards, and goes back to where he was sitting, on what looks like an upturned barrel. I still haven’t seen his face.
“I’m looking for Syria,” I say.
The man in the shadows waves a hand in the general direction of the rest of the universe.
I hold my ground. “Help me out here.”
The man grunts. “You need Syria’s help? You must be in bad trouble.”
“The worst kind.”
There’s a long silence. Then he says, “1-E. Down by the water point.”
As I walk away, he shouts, “Better not be stomper business, or I stomp you, you get me?”
“Got you,” I mutter, pushing my way through a group of sullen women milling around a corner in the corridor.
The water point is the closest thing that the Caves have to a gathering place. The lights in the ceiling burned out a long time ago, never to be replaced, and the only illumination comes from small fires, scattered across the floor. The big water tank bolted onto the wall towers over a line of people topping up their canteens. Small groups hang around nearby, playing cards, talking, laughing in quiet bursts. I can feel eyes on me the second I draw close, and not all of them are friendly.
Syria has his head bent, greasy hair falling over his face, shoulders bent and angular. Down on one knee in a card game, every other player watching to see what he does. As I get closer, I see they’re playing acey-deucy, and that Syria already has three twos down. One more, and he wins the game.
“Show ’em,” mutters one of the players.
“He got nothing but odds,” says another.
“Odds and faces.”
“I got what I got,” says Syria. “You just sit there while I think it over.”
It’s impossible to make out his face, hidden under the strands of greasy hair. I hover on the outside of the circle, willing people not to notice me. I’ll talk to him when the game’s finished, when he’s—
Syria looks up and sees me.
“Everybody clear out,” he says quietly.
The other players have seen me by now, eyeing me warily, but now they turn back to Syria, cursing and complaining. He silences them with a wave. “I said clear out.”
In seconds, they melt away. And I become aware of something else: no one is looking at me any more. I’ve gone from being an object of interest to not existing. That’s what happens when you go and speak to the single most powerful person in the Caves – a man who, if you believe the stories, has never set foot outside his sector.
I don’t know if Syria is his first name, or his last. He’s not a gang leader, or a power-hungry maniac like Oren Darnell. He just keeps the Caves safe. I did one or two deliveries for him while I was with the Devil Dancers, although he’s not what I’d call a regular client.
Syria folds his feet under him, sitting cross-legged. He shuffles the cards, and I see he’s wearing a thin, highly polished silver ring on his hand. It seems out of place amid the dirt and grime on the rest of his skin. I sit opposite him, my legs complaining as I do so. He says nothing.
“How are you, Syria?” I say.
It’s a few moments before he replies. “You’re a stomper now. Got nothin’ to say to you.”
“Come on, Syria,” I say, feigning bravado I don’t feel.
He says nothing. I exhale slowly. No point trying to convince him that the stompers aren’t about to come busting in here. Better just to be out with it.
“I need your help,” I say.
“And what exactly do you think I can help you with?” He looks up at me again. The spark in his eyes has faded a little, replaced by an amused curiosity.
I look behind me, at the queue of people by the water point pretending to pay no attention to us. “Can we go somewhere private?” I say.
“Don’t get cute.” His eyes find me again. “You got two choices. You can speak your piece here, the whole of it, no lies, or you can get out. There’s a third option, but it’s not one you want to pick.”
I lean in as close as I can. “I want your help to break Janice Okwembu out of the brig.”
Syria rockets to his feet. Before I can react, he grabs me by the arm, marching me away from the water point.
“What’s the deal?” one of the men yells.
“Back later,” Syria says. He rips open a door, and shoves me inside. It’s a dormitory hab, with neat rows of bunk beds lined up along the walls. Drying clothes hang from lines strung wall-to-wall, and there are kids’ toys underfoot. The air is thick and muggy.
Syria leads me to a bed, and pushes me down to sit on it. He stalks around the hab, and, when he’s satisfied that we’re alone, he sits down opposite me.
For a long time, neither of us says anything. My SPOCS unit is completely silent.
“Do you have any idea,” Syria says, “of what would happen if any of my people heard you say that?”
“I—”
“They’ve been wanting to take a crack at her for months. It’d be like putting a torch to a line of fuel.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, don’t you? A stomper, with inside knowledge of the whole system, comes into Caves talking about a prison break. They’ll either think you’re on a sting operation, in which case you won’t make it out of here alive, or they’ll go off half-cocked, and get themselves killed. Not to mention bringing every stomper on Outer Earth into the Caves, looking for payback.”
He sits back on the bed, his shoulders sagging, as if he used up all his
energy on the outburst. “What are you doing, Riley? I know what happened to you. Everybody does. But you aren’t thinking straight.”
I look down at the floor. There’s a chalk drawing on it, a child’s drawing, all big heads and misshapen eyes. A man and a girl, holding hands.
I stare at it, picking my next words carefully. I don’t dare tell him about Knox – not yet. But I have to make him help me. It’s the only idea I’ve got.
“And why shouldn’t we go get her?” I say. “She’s been in there for months. There’s no council to convict her. It’s time she got what’s coming.”
“Were you not—”
“Your guys are right. I do have inside knowledge. I could protect you. I could make sure the stompers never come near the Caves.”
He looks at me, his eyes giving away nothing.
Eventually, he shakes his head. “Sorry. There’s no way. You get safe passage out of the sector, but that’s all I’m—”
Someone starts yelling for him in the passage outside.
“Busy,” he shouts.
But there’s more sound coming from outside. Panicked voices, the noise of running feet. Syria looks towards the door, starts to rise off the bed.
The shout comes again. “Syria, get out here!”
Syria takes off, sprinting out of the room. I’m right on his heels.
The line by the water point has scattered, people running in all directions – all except one man, on his hands and knees. He wears a dirty, tattered flight jacket, his long hair hanging down around his face.
He’s coughing – huge, hacking bursts. And every time he coughs, he sprays thick, black, shiny tendrils from his mouth.
24
Prakesh
Prakesh gets to the doorway a second before Tseng does. He knows what Tseng means to do – there’s a control panel on the other side of the door. You need a code to access its functions, but you can use it to seal the Air Lab. A safety precaution, built in when the door was installed.
