by Rob Boffard
Royo howls – it’s a cry of agony, like he’s being tortured, like he’s going through the worst pain imaginable – and pulls the trigger.
46
Prakesh
The harsh light from the cutting torch throws the structures in the Food Lab into sharp relief. Scaffolding rises above them, ladders and pipes etching rigid shadows onto the walls. The floor is smeared with soot, with tools scattered across it, hammers and welding masks and angle grinders. The greenhouses, destroyed in the fire, are nothing more than shells, their thick bases almost melted away.
The door to the Food Lab whines shut behind them, clicking into place.
Prakesh coughs. Even now, months after the fire, the air is still thick with a sour chemical tang. Julian gives him a shove and he stumbles forward, almost tripping over a welding mask. He whirls, on the verge of anger now, but Julian has the stinger pointed right at him. Iko sweeps the cutting torch from side to side, the shadows moving with it.
Prakesh starts walking, keeping his hands visible at his sides. The group falls silent as they move through the hangar, stepping single file between the melted greenhouses. Prakesh’s mind is on fire, anxiety poking holes in his plan. He should make his move now. No. He’s still an easy target. But the longer he waits, the further he gets from the Food Lab entrance …
“I don’t like this place,” Roger says.
“Same here,” Iko replies. “Hey, Prakesh,” he says, raising his voice. “Weren’t you here when the fire started?”
Prakesh says nothing.
“Sure he was,” Julian says. “He watched old Deacon go up in smoke. Didn’t you?”
Prakesh keeps his eyes fixed on the floor ahead of him. He’d rather not think about that particularly day – the day when Deacon, one of Oren Darnell’s co-conspirators, strapped on a vest containing packs of flammable ammonium nitrate and then set himself on fire. Prakesh nearly died in the inferno. So did Riley; she ran in there to save him.
If I get out of this, he thinks, I am going to hug her so hard she won’t be able to breathe.
His shin smacks into something hard. A piece of sheet metal, laid between the remains of two of the greenhouses to form a low, makeshift table. He lands on it hands first, soot scratching at his palms, scattering the tools lying across it.
There’s shouting from behind him. Julian is there instantly, jamming the gun into his neck, a sweaty hand against his hair.
“Watch where you’re going,” he says, hissing the words into Prakesh’s ear, then hauling him upright. Prakesh can feel blood soaking into his pants, oozing from where the metal edge sliced through them.
Julian kicks the table aside, the crash echoing off the walls. They keep marching. This time, Julian makes Iko and Roger take the lead, keeping the stinger wedged firmly in Prakesh’s back.
He directs them to the end of the hangar, to the massive structure that rises almost to the ceiling. The walls still stand – the support struts are made of thick steel, and they managed to withstand the fire. But the inside is a tangle of melted metal and plastic, and there’s another smell in the air now, earthy and sour.
“The Buzz Box?” says Julian. “Your exit’s in the Buzz Box?”
Prakesh meets his eyes, and nods.
“And you had to lead us here? You didn’t think to mention that this was where we were going?”
“You didn’t ask,” Prakesh says.
Julian falls silent, staring up at the structure. The Buzz Box. Ten million beetles and twenty million silkworms – the station’s single best source of protein, before they were all burned to cinders. It deserved its name. Prakesh remembers the noise, a hum so intense that it vibrated your stomach. It’s darker inside than it is on the hangar floor, as if the light from the cutting torch can’t quite penetrate.
“At the back,” he says. “There’s a loose panel on the wall.”
Julian pushes him inside. “Show us.”
The top sections of the structure have burned out, collapsing inwards, and the floor crunches underfoot. At first, Prakesh thinks it’s just debris, but the fragments are too small. It’s only when Iko plays the light over it that he realises what they’re walking on: dead insects. Millions of them, frozen in puddles of melted plastic.
I’m in a nightmare, he thinks, and almost laughs. He expects someone to make a joke, Iko maybe, but nobody says a word.
He’s running out of time. But Julian has the gun at his back, and Iko’s cutting torch is just a little too close. Sweat beads on his forehead, dripping into his eyes.
After what seems like an age, they reach the back of the Buzz Box. Julian lets him go, and Prakesh makes a pretence of moving along the wall, running his hands across the panels. Please, please let this work.
“Here,” he says, nearly swallowing the word. He raps on one of the panels – a panel he knows has nothing wired behind it. “This one.”
Nobody moves.
Julian gestures with the stinger. “OK. So open it up.”
Prakesh crouches down, pretending to work on the bottom of the panel. He looks over his shoulder, finding Iko’s eyes. “I need some more light.”
Iko glances at Julian, who shrugs. He steps forward, raising the tip of the cutting torch so it’s above Prakesh’s head.
Now.
Prakesh reaches up, grabs the cutting torch cylinder, and wrenches it out of Iko’s grip. Before the man can do anything, Prakesh pulls it downwards, his fingers hunting for the ON switch.
He finds it just as the nozzle touches Iko’s thigh. The plasma slices through fabric and skin and flesh. Iko howls, more in surprise than pain.
Prakesh hears the stinger go off, drowning out Julian’s shout of surprise. But he’s already gone, sprinting back the way they came in.
47
Riley
The bullet buries itself in the wall somewhere behind us. There’s no second shot. We turn a corner in the corridor, and Royo is gone.
None of us says anything as we run. There’s too much to deal with: Anna’s betrayal, what happened to Kev. My body feels like a canteen, drained of its last sip of water.
The time I spent in the hospital, off my feet, has restored some of my energy. Carver drops behind the more we run, first alongside me, then behind me. Initially, I think it’s because he’s letting me lead the way, but then I realise it’s more than that; he’s not as fit as me, and not as fast over long distances. I can hear him breathing, ragged and quick.
Anna is hurting, too. I can see it in her stance, in the set expression on her face. But she keeps pace with me, refusing to drop back.
When we slip through the door into the surgery, Okwembu is still strapped to the table, bent over. The bottle I put in front of her has been knocked onto the floor, and, judging by the red marks on her wrists, she’s been trying to pull loose. She gives us a cold look, tight-lipped.
Carver stares at her for a moment, fascinated, as if he’s never seen her close up. I guess he hasn’t. Anna leans up against the door, trembling, pushing against the stitch that’s trying to bend her in two.
Carver points to Okwembu. “You actually managed to get her all the way here without killing her?” he says. “Not sure I’d’ve managed it. Not after what she did.”
“I was trying to save Outer Earth, young man,” Okwembu says.
Carver leans forward over the table, so close to Okwembu’s face that their noses are almost touching. “My crew leader died after you and Darnell got in her head. Didn’t save her, did you?”
“Carver,” I say. I can’t even look at the other room, where Knox is. Not until I have the drug compound.
He shakes his head, then reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a small bottle and tosses it to me. It’s about the size of my palm, filled with something that looks like thick urine. Spotting a syringe on one of the shelves, I grab it and yank the cap off before jamming it into the mesh stopper on the top of the bottle. My hands are shaking so hard that I almost drop the syringe. I sprint into the o
ther room, skidding to my knees in front of Knox.
For a long, horrible moment, I’m sure he’s stopped breathing. Then he gives a tiny exhalation, almost like a cough, his chest fluttering. There are more Resin strands on his face, fresh ones over the dried tracks. I don’t waste another second. I grab his arm, pull back his sleeve and jam the needle into a vein. I push the plunger, and dark blood wells up alongside the wound.
Knox’s arm jerks, sending the needle flying. He coughs, then groans in pain, twisting his legs, his back arching so far that it pushes him off the floor. His breath is coming in short gasps.
“Did it work?”
Carver is standing in the doorway, his arms folded, Anna peeking over his shoulder. I can see Okwembu behind her, straining for a better look.
Knox’s breathing has settled back to a regular tempo – shallow, but consistent. His eyes flutter open, fix on mine. A capillary in his left eye has ruptured, staining the white matter bright red.
“I was…” he starts – but another coughing fit overtakes him, grabbing his body in a giant fist and shaking.
Carver speaks from behind me. “You awake yet, asshole?”
“Carver,” I say. “How long?”
“What?”
“The drugs. How much more time do we have?”
He shrugs. “Half a day, maybe? I don’t know. Resin’s tough to figure out.”
“Resin?” says Knox, rising up onto his elbows. He nearly makes it, but his body starts trembling and he collapses. “Is that what it’s called?” He rolls onto his side, pulls his legs up to his chest. “Throat hurts.”
“Get used to it,” I say.
He glances towards Carver and Anna. “You brought someone else in here?”
“They’re friends. And they helped save your life, in case you’re wondering.”
“Not that you deserve it,” Anna says.
He doesn’t respond. He’s bathed in sweat, and every cough sets his body trembling like a leaf in airflow.
“I did what you asked, all right?” I say. “I broke her out. Time to hold up your end.”
He stares at me, uncomprehending.
A tiny seed of panic begins to flower, deep inside me. “I brought her to you, just like you wanted,” I say, as if repeating it enough will get it through his skull. His pupils are unfocused, his mouth slightly open. When he licks his cracked lips, I see his tongue is almost completely black.
“Who?” he says. “Amira? You brought me my Amira?
Carver rockets off the door frame, fists clenched, mouth set in a thin line. Anna grabs him, pulling him back.
“No,” I say, forcing myself to stay calm. “Okwembu. Janice Okwembu.”
I jerk my head towards the operating table. He glances behind me, sees the former council leader strapped down. She stares back at him, refusing to let fear show on her face.
“Very good,” he says. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back on the floor.
I grip his shoulder. “Take these things out. Now.”
“Ah yes,” he says. “I should keep my promise.”
He raises his hands, and with a kind of dull horror I see that they’re shaking. He can’t keep his fingers still. I grip his right hand – it’s ice-cold under my fingers, the skin damp with sweat, and, no matter how I squeeze, it won’t keep still.
“I could take the devices out,” says Knox, “but doing it without setting them off? Or leaving the surrounding tissue intact? That I’m not sure about.”
I throw his hand down. It bounces off his chest, coming to a rest by his side. His eyes are closed. I want to scream at him. But he’s right – there’s no way he can carry out any sort of surgery.
Carver leans over him. “Then tell us how to deactivate them. There’s gotta be a way.”
But Knox is gone – fallen back into unconsciousness, his chest rising and falling. No telling how long he has left. How long I have. I’m back to the beginning. I walk past Carver and pick up the pills, then lean on the edge of one of the basins lining the wall. I hang my head, trying to focus on my breathing.
“Riley,” Anna says. “What exactly was he going to do to Okwembu? Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
I backhand her across the face, my body moving before my mind registers what’s happening. It knocks Anna backwards, the sound cracking around the room. I grab her by the front of her shirt and slam her into the wall. Her beanie falls over one eye, and the other one looks back at me in fear and incomprehension.
“None of this is what you think it is,” I say. “Being a tracer, being a stomper, all of it. You treat it like a game, but in the real world people die. People we care about.”
She struggles in my grip. “All I’m saying is that we should—”
“You wanna trade places?” I say. “Fine. You can be the one who gets turned into a walking bomb. You can make the decisions.”
Carver pushes between us. When I resist he shoves me away, and when I try to rush back he puts a hand square on my chest. “Everybody just calm down.”
“Why did we even let her come?” I say through teeth clenched so hard that my jaw clicks.
“Riley, I—”
Carver pulls me away. I try to wrench free, but he wraps me in his arms, burying my head in his shoulder. That’s when I realise I’m crying. The tears are ice-cold against my skin.
“Easy now,” Carver whispers. “Easy.”
“Kev was my fault,” I say, amazed that I can still find words. “I killed him.”
“No. You didn’t. You understand me? That was all Knox. And when this is all over, we’ll go and talk to Kev’s parents together. Promise.”
The oddest feeling comes over me then. It’s the same feeling I have when I’m close to Prakesh, when we’re lying in bed and I have my head buried in the side of his neck. At first, I think it’s just me missing him, but it’s more than that. Being this close to someone, being held, feels good. Good enough that I don’t want to let go.
When I look up, after what seems like entire minutes, Okwembu is watching me intently.
“Riley,” Anna says, her voice very small. “I’m so, so sorry. Captain Royo told me that we had to bring you in, so I … I mean, if I’d known, I would have…”
“It’s OK,” says Carver. “Everybody screwed everybody. We’ve balanced the karma.”
I take a deep breath. “Yeah.”
I glance at Anna. Carver’s got no family to speak of, but she’s different. “If you want to get back up to Tzevya, look after your folks, that’s fine.”
She opens her mouth to speak, pauses, shakes her head. “If my father knew I left you, he wouldn’t let me back in anyway.”
“What’s the word on SPOCS?” I say.
Anna tilts her head. “Oh, right. You don’t have yours. Resin’s all anybody’s talking about. We’ve dropped right down the priority list.”
“Good to know.”
She narrows her eyes. “Okwembu – she hasn’t got sick either?”
Anna’s right. I look back at the former council leader – bound, but healthy.
Carver thinks, then shakes his head. “There’s a connection, but not one that I can see. Anyway, it’s not important right now – we’ve definitely been exposed to Resin, we definitely aren’t sick and we can definitely move faster than anyone else. So what do we all have in common?”
Anna sucks in a breath. “Of course.”
Carver and I stare at her. She looks back at us, her eyes wide.
“Mikhail,” she says. “He’s what we all have in common. He’s why we aren’t sick.”
Neither of us responds. She looks between us, back and forth. “Think about it. Riley and I arrested him, and Carver, you were there when we brought him in.”
I shake my head. “So was Royo. And he’s got Resin.”
“And Mariana,” Carver says. When he sees Anna looking confused, he goes on. “The guard at the brig. She died earlier.”
“Right,” says Anna, grimacin
g. “But name one other thing that connects us. It’s him, I’m telling you.”
An idea flickers at the edge of my mind. Something I saw. Before I can get a fix on it, it’s gone.
At that moment, there’s a noise from the corridor outside. The sound of people trying to be quiet and failing. A single glance between Carver and me is enough.
We start moving. But we’re barely halfway to the door when it flies open, and people with guns charge into the room.
48
Riley
I let muscle memory take over.
The closest attacker is a woman, her long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, her lower face hidden by a green scarf. I knock her gun aside, and follow it up with a jab to her throat. She crumples, retching. I’m dimly aware of Carver moving alongside me, grunting as he takes another one of them down.
I drop and spin, lashing out with my left leg, catching another one of them in the shin. I get a glimpse of Anna. She’s grabbed a scalpel, and has thrown it, flicking her hand out. It fails to connect, bouncing off a jacket-clad chest. Okwembu is shouting, pulling at her restraints.
I use my momentum to spin myself upright, ready to take out the rest of them. I don’t know who they are, or what they want, but they’re not getting it.
Too many of them. They’re pouring through the door, stingers out, eyes flashing in triumph. Carver and I are slammed up against the wall, and one of them has his arms around Anna, lifting her off the ground. She’s screaming and kicking, but her hands are held tight against her waist.
I look around, and a stinger barrel is inches from my nose.
“Stop moving,” says the owner. It’s the woman I attacked first, the one with the ponytail, and her voice is hoarse from the blow across her throat. Above the green scarf, her eyes are murderous. I subside, breathing hard. Carver does, too – he’s got three guns on him. The surgery is packed with people.
