Zero-G

by Rob Boffard

  “Just go,” Syria says.

  Then he slots the panel back into the wall with a clunk, leaving me in darkness.

  28

  Knox

  The two stompers – Richards and Olawole – walk up the passage towards Knox’s surgery. Richards is lean, more gristle than flesh, with a gaunt face. Olawole is a foot taller than him, massive, with a trim goatee. His left eye is gone, the socket sewn shut.

  “Morgan Knox,” Richards says, as he slams his fist against the door a second time. “Station protection. Open the door please.”

  Silence. In the distance, a merchant is yelling about hot silkworms.

  “This is bullshit,” mutters Olawole, as Richards hammers on the door again.

  “Knox!” Richards shouts. “Respond, or we’re breaking in.”

  To Olawole he says, “Damn right. Hale is going to be one sorry piece of ass tomorrow, I’ll tell you that.”

  Olawole smirks. “Hey, tell me something. Would you ever hit that?”

  “Who? Hale?”

  “Yeah.”

  Richards thinks for a moment. “Nah. Not my type.”

  He steps back, removing a tiny hand-held plasma cutter from his belt – useless for thick steel, but easily capable of melting a lock. “Knox, last chance,” he shouts. “Open this door now.”

  There’s a barked voice from behind them. “Not there.”

  Richards and Olawole spin around, their hands automatically going to the holsters on their belts. Olawole pauses, the fleshy part of his thumb resting on the butt of the stinger. Then he relaxes. It’s just an exile – a vagrant, someone without a hab to go back to. You can recognise them a mile away, usually by the stench. The first whiffs of it reach the stompers now, thick and foul. Richards wrinkles his nose.

  The exile is dressed in rags, his face lowered, as if in deference to the stompers’ authority. He has a thick coat, caked with dirt, the collar pulled up around his neck.

  “Move along,” says Richards, his hand still on his gun.

  “Not there,” the exile says again. He’s mumbling, like he’s got a mouth full of something. “Saw him go out a few hours ago.”

  “You hear that?” Richards taps the back of his hand on Olawole’s chest. “He’s not here. Let’s call it in and go home.”

  But Olawole is standing stock-still, his one good eye locked on the exile. The man twitches, scratches his neck, and Olawole can see the dirt caked under his nails.

  “You listening to me?” says Richards. But Olawole is already moving, and in moments he’s standing over the exile, towering over him. The man shrinks against the wall, cringing. He still hasn’t looked up.

  “Kind of interesting, you just showing up here,” Olawole says. He leans in close – the smell scours the back of his throat, but he ignores it. “Knox say where he was going?”

  The exile shakes his head, a furious back and forth, still staring at the corridor floor. “He didn’t say anything to me, man. Anything. But I saved you the trouble right? Of knocking the door down? Right? So you can look after me?”

  “What’s your name?” Olawole says.

  The exile mumbles something, more to himself than to the stomper. Olawole frowns, leans in a little closer. He turns his head to one side slightly. “What was that?”

  He doesn’t see the taser until it’s too late. The exile pulls it out of his jacket pocket and activates it in one movement. Olawole rockets backwards, his arms flailing, and there’s a crack as his teeth smash together. His one good eye rolls back in his head, showing nothing but white.

  “Shit!” Richards says. He’s already pulling his weapon from its holster, already gauging the distance, but Morgan Knox is one step ahead of him. The field-induction discharge sends him slamming into the corridor wall, barely conscious, every muscle burning with white-hot fire.

  Knox checks the taser. Still at three-quarters charge. He has to move quickly – they won’t stay down for long. He limps over to the big one, the stomper with one eye, then points the taser at him and holds down the trigger until the horrid smell from his rags is chased away by the smell of cooking flesh.

  Richards is starting to come back as Knox walks towards him. He can move his mouth, but he can’t form words yet. Drool leaks down his chin. He swivels his eyes towards Knox, but all he can see is the bulbous end of the taser, two feet from his face.

  Knox drains the taser battery. When it clicks off automatically, he notices that the stomper’s jacket is smouldering. He puts a foot underneath the body, then rolls it over to starve the fire of oxygen.

  He looks around the corridor, but he’s alone. He pockets the taser, and walks back to his surgery. There’s a furnace nearby, rarely manned – he’ll get his cart, dispose of the bodies, and then he’ll finally get to deal with Riley Hale.

  29

  Riley

  Syria wasn’t kidding. At times, the passage through the wall is so tight that I have to shuck the top half of my jumpsuit to make myself thinner, trailing it behind me. Dust is everywhere, tickling the back of my throat, and the only light comes from cracks in the panelling.

  The exit comes sooner than I anticipated. I have to crawl to reach it, flattening myself under a coil of power cables, and I nearly bang my head against the wall as the passage dead-ends. But the panel is unsecured, with no screws in place, and I lift it gently away. It’s at floor level, and I can see feet in the corridor beyond. Nobody’s running, which means news of the disease hasn’t spread yet.

  Working quickly, I slide my way out, getting to my knees and slotting the panel back in place. I’m unsteady on my feet, my body trying to process the insanity I’ve put it through over the past hour. The corridor thrums with activity around me, but nobody notices me slipping out of the vent. Just as well.

  Royo hails me over SPOCS, and I key my wristband to transmit. “Copy, Hale here,” I say.

  “New orders,” he says. “Rejoin the unit at the hospital in Chengshi, Level 2. Beck can brief you on the way. Confirm.”

  I try to ignore the prickles on the back of my neck. “Everything OK in Gardens?”

  “It all went to shit,” says Carver. “People spewing black gunk out of their mouths. We’ve got hotspots popping up all over the station.”

  “What?” The prickles have spread, fizzing up onto my scalp and down my spine. It couldn’t have made it out of Caves. Not this soon.

  Royo tries to say something, but I cut him off. “Is it in Gardens? The Air Lab?” I try to disguise the worry in my voice, and fail miserably.

  “Negative,” says Royo. “Han Tseng shut it down.”

  “What do you mean shut it down?”

  “Locked the techs inside,” says Anna.

  “Can’t risk whatever this is getting into the Air Lab,” Carver says. “And before you freak out: Prakesh is fine.”

  “Well, Carver nearly knocked him out,” Anna says, “but generally speaking, everything’s OK.”

  I take a deep breath. “Could someone please explain to me what the hell is going on?”

  “Tracers,” Royo says. “Hospital. Chengshi. Now.”

  “We’ll tell you when we get there, Ry,” says Carver. I don’t waste time trying to argue. I take off, pushing my body into a sprint.

  30

  Riley

  My throat is already burning, but I don’t dare stop running.

  The strange thing is seeing how normal the rest of the station is. Everybody’s going about their business, still unaware that there’s any kind of outbreak. I pass a group of men sitting on the benches in one of the galleries, talking among themselves. One of them is at the climax of a story, and they burst into laughter as I dash through the middle of them.

  The motion of running calms me, like it always does. My body comes first, the muscles relaxing into well-oiled routine, burning brightly as I run through Apogee. My mind follows as I climb the stairs towards Level 2 on the Chengshi border, dodging around the small clusters of people standing on the mezzanine.


  I might be sick, too. Whatever this … thing is, it might be cooking in my lungs right now. Maybe my scratchy throat last night was just the start. I lick my dry, cracked lips. There’s nothing I can do about it. If I so much as hint that I was in an infection zone, they’ll quarantine me, lock me away, just like Prakesh. At that, I get two shots of guilt at once: one for possibly being a moving disease carrier, and another for how Prakesh and I left things. At least he’s safe. At least he’s with his people.

  It occurs to me that Knox might be behind this. He’s certainly got the skill to do it. But it doesn’t make sense – he doesn’t care about the rest of the station, just me and Okwembu. He’s not like Oren Darnell, who was quite happy to take himself out along with the rest of us. He wants to live just as much as I do.

  The area around the hospital entrance is quiet. It’s in a larger corridor than most, better lit and free of graffiti. The other tracers are standing over by the closed double doors, and the metal surfaces reflect my body as I run towards them.

  Carver gives me a wordless wave, and it’s only then that I see that he and the others are wearing flimsy white face masks over their mouths.

  Kev looks over. Above his mask, his eyes are more alive than I’ve seen them in months. “Got one for you, too,” he says, digging in his pocket.

  “Glad you could make it,” Anna says, folding her arms.

  I ignore her, slipping the scratchy mask over my face. “Where is everybody?” I say, gesturing to the empty corridor. The mask makes my voice sounds weird

  “On the way,” Anna says. “We just got here first.”

  “The Air Lab. What happened?”

  “Your boy was—” Carver says, then doubles over with a coughing fit, his paper mask ballooning out. He looks up to see us all staring at him. “Would you relax? Gods.”

  “Prakesh is fine,” Kev says. He puts an enormous hand on my shoulder. “Air Lab is secure. No disease, no nothing. Not that I could see. You’re good.”

  I smile up at him, then remember that he can’t see it under the mask. Instead, I tilt my head pressing it against his hand. “OK.”

  Kev squeezes once, then lets go.

  “We talked to the docs?” I say, gesturing to the doors.

  Anna nods. “Stay indoors until the shooting stops.”

  “This thing’s nasty, Ry,” says Carver. “And it’s everywhere. Air Lab might be the only place we haven’t seen it.”

  My SPOCS unit crackles, and a dispatcher comes over the line. “This is a priority call,” he says. “We have a medical update on the disease. The next voice you hear will be Dr James Arroway, chief medical officer in Apex.”

  Anna starts to speak, but Carver gestures her to be quiet. His head is tilted slightly, listening hard.

  There’s a pause, another painful crackle of static, then Arroway comes on.

  “I’ll be as brief as I can,” he says, his voice tinny over the comms. “We’ve tested some samples, and it’s not good. It’s a virus – we’ve taken to calling it Resin. We don’t know where it came from, but we do know that once it hits the human body, it works fast. Our drugs don’t seem to have any effect on it, and patients aren’t producing strong enough antibodies. Unconsciousness occurs at twelve hours. Extrapolating from the cases we’re seeing, death occurs within eighteen.”

  “Holy shit,” Anna says.

  “Yup,” says Kev.

  “It attacks the lungs and the nasal mucosa,” Arroway says. “We do know that it’s airborne. Anybody with it is a walking cloud of infection – touching someone, or even just being in close proximity to them, will cause the virus to enter your system. The virus does not – I repeat, does not – survive in water. You can treat all water points as active.

  “We’re working on a cure now, or, at the very least, a mix of drugs to slow the spread of the virus in the body. We’re also working on our processes and manufacturing equipment to produce it as fast as possible, but we don’t know if we’ll be able to keep pace with the infection. Until then, keep your masks on, keep—”

  At that moment, the hissing static in my SPOCS unit cuts out, and Knox says, “Riley.”

  I turn away from the others, trying to ignore the fear in my gut. “Not a good time,” I say, keeping my voice low. Anna and Carver are deep in discussion, and Kev is staring into the distance, eyes scanning the corridor.

  “Do you know what I’m looking at right now?” says Knox.

  The fear in my stomach grows colder, sending tiny chips of ice through my body.

  “Two stompers,” he says. “Two dead stompers. They came to arrest me. Why do you think they did that?”

  This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

  “I don’t know,” I say, through gritted teeth.

  “You must think I’m simple,” he says. “It’s the only explanation. They mentioned your name when they were told to bring me in, by the way.” His voice turns mocking. “Warrant issued by Junior Officer Hale, R.”

  And, right then, I decide I’ve had enough. I’m sick of his games. I’m sick of his poison voice in my ear. Time to call his bluff.

  “Go ahead then,” I say. “Do it. I don’t think you can. I think you still need me, because without me you’ll never get Okwembu.”

  “Who are you talking to?” says Carver. I can feel him and Anna looking at me. The corridor is deathly silent, as if the station is holding its breath.

  “Tell me,” says Knox. “Is Kevin O’Connell with you?”

  The chips of ice expand, freezing the blood in my veins. My eyes find Kev. He sees me looking, and gives me a quizzical glance. When I don’t look away, he slowly pulls his mask down.

  “Everything OK?” Anna says, looking between us.

  Knox’s voice is as smooth as silk in my ear. “I want you to watch your friend Kevin very closely.”

  “Riley?” says Kev.

  The words come out of me as one long, agonised howl. “Kevin! No!”

  There’s a wet, distant thud. Kev doubles over, clutching his stomach, as if his hands are trying to cover up the red stain spreading across his shirt.

  31

  Riley

  What happens next is difficult to follow.

  I’m at Kev’s side, kneeling over him, my hands hovering above his body. There’s blood on the floor, soaking through my jumpsuit.

  At the same time, I’m seeing him running with his partner Yao, seeing him swing her into the air to catch the edge of a catwalk. She’s sitting on his shoulders, legs dangling, talking non-stop while he shakes his head at her bad jokes.

  I’m being shoved aside by Carver. He flips Kev over, grabbing his shoulders, shouting his name.

  In my memory, Kev is sitting against the wall of the Nest, reading our copy of Treasure Island for the tenth time, his lips moving ever so slightly.

  I see Anna, her hands over her mouth, staring down at Kev’s empty face. I see Kev smiling, lopsided and goofy, feel his hand on my shoulder.

  And in my ear, I can hear the very quiet hiss of Knox’s line.

  “Move, Riley!” Carver pushes me back a second time, so hard that I tip over backwards. He looks up at Anna. “Get a doctor.”

  She doesn’t move. He jabs a finger at the hospital doors. “Get a fucking doctor!”

  She turns and runs, slamming through the doors. The bang echoes around the empty corridor. Carver’s hands track across Kev’s stomach, hunting for the source of the wound. Blood soaks his forearms. He’s talking to himself – no, he’s talking to Kev, telling him to stop it, telling him to say something, anything.

  And then there’s a doctor, a white blur with wrinkled hands, and he’s lifting Kev’s tattered shirt, and the look on his face shocks me to my core. By now I’m standing, staring in mute horror at Kev. My face is wet from tears. I hear words like internal, and organ damage.

  It all falls into place. Kev’s operation – the one he had to remove the pulmonary embolism after they fixed his ankle.

  He was ope
rated on in Caves, where he could be close to his family. Was it at Medical Unit 262? Knox’s old hospital? It had to be – it’s the only way Knox could have sneaked the explosive into Kev’s abdomen. Maybe he even performed the operation himself. He must have been planning all this for months, planning far enough ahead to know who I ran with, to figure out how to get to them. He saw an opportunity, and moved on it.

  The doctor vanishes, calling for more help, for a stretcher. But it’s far too late.

  Then there’s silence. The corridor is still.

  “What happened to him, Riley?”

  Carver’s voice is different: brittle, fragile, like a thin pane of glass with nothing but the blackness of space beyond it. He stands slowly, one movement at a time, and turns to look at me.

  “You knew what was going to happen,” Carver says. “You and whoever you were talking to.”

  Anna’s eyes are huge under the edge of her beanie. “This – I don’t—”

  “Tell me,” Carver says. His voice hasn’t changed. But there’s no mistaking the raw fury in his eyes.

  I say the only thing I can think of.

  “I can’t.”

  And then before either of them can react, I turn, and run.

  32

  Riley

  By the time I reach the Chengshi border, the stitch in my side is an inferno, and Outer Earth is coming apart around me.

  I expected Han Tseng to announce Resin on the comms. He doesn’t. Not that it matters – by now, rumours have spread around the station, helped along by the tracer network. Even if people don’t know exactly what’s happening, they’ll know that something bad is going on. I’m expecting panic, but the corridors are emptying. People are withdrawing into their habs, shutting themselves away. Nobody wants to come into contact with anyone else.