Tracer

by Rob Boffard

  And the best part? The beliefs, ideas, whatever you called them, were like viruses. Give them the right conditions, and they thrive. They multiply. They make copies of themselves. And the more revolutionary the idea – the more potent the virus – the harder it would be to eradicate. Soon there was a new network, reaching across Outer Earth: a network of people fuelled by the ideas they carried.

  Unless …

  It’s possible – just possible – that the stompers are messing with him. That they found out about his sleepers, and decided to have a little fun, holding out hope and intending to snatch it away. There’ll be no signal, no rogue guard leading him to safety.

  For the first time, Darnell feels a twinge of fear. If he is found guilty – and he will be – they’ll stand him up against a wall right there, in front of everyone.

  Oren Darnell isn’t afraid of dying. But he is afraid of dying without his revenge.

  “Move it,” mutters one of the guards. Darnell, lost in his thoughts, has slowed down, and the stompers holding him nearly yank him off his feet. He stumbles, keeping himself going with the thought of the stompers’ faces melting off in screaming agony.

  And just then, just as he regains his balance, the stomper on his left looks at him and nods. Ever so slightly. His black faceplate reveals nothing, reflecting Darnell’s own face back at him. The moment is brief, and then the stomper is eyes front again, dragging Darnell onwards.

  He can hear the gallery ahead. The noise is intense, pushed into a concentrated roar by the corridors surrounding the open space. Darnell smiles to himself, and somehow manages to stand a little straighter, his body dwarfing the stompers around him.

  Darnell doesn’t know what the signal will be, but he’ll be ready.

  27

  Riley

  I don’t want to go to Darnell’s trial, but after a while I find myself heading there anyway. Maybe Okwembu’s more persuasive than even she realises. I’m not testifying though, whatever she thinks.

  When I left the hospital in New Germany, I toyed with going up to Gardens to see Prakesh – now that Darnell’s gone, the water in his sector is probably running freely again, so he’ll be in a good mood – but I decided I couldn’t face the crush. I began running back towards the market in Apogee, thinking I could maybe go and see Madala and pick up that job he was talking about.

  But the joy I’d felt earlier is gone, replaced by a growing unease. My movements feel stilted and slow, and I can’t get Okwembu’s words out of my head. You have to be pretty ruthless to stay in the council’s top spot for ten years, but it’s unsettling to see it up close.

  I’m wearing an old hoodie under my jacket, and as I hit the Apogee border I pull the hood up. The corridors have become even more crowded, the crush building inside them as people hustle to the gallery for the best spots. Instead, I force my way up the stairwells, eventually emerging onto the Level 3 catwalk. It’s only just filling up with people, and is a lot quieter than the chaos down below. The noise is insane: a roaring mix of laughter, shouts, and calls from merchants taking advantage of a captive audience. They’ve set up stalls along the walls – one of them has even managed to score a prime spot in the centre. He’s a blur behind his table, dishing out what look like cooked beetles, the crates behind him overflowing with traded objects. The smell of frying food drifts up from below in thick clouds. The atmosphere is buoyant, almost like a festival.

  The sea of people spread out on the gallery floor stops dead by the far wall, brought up short by a line of waist-high barricades. There are stompers behind it, facing the crowd. They wear black full-face masks, and thick helmets squashed onto their heads. Every one of them is holding a stinger. Behind them, two people are putting the finishing touches on a platform – a dais of some kind, made of steel plates and welded pipes.

  A little way down the catwalk, I see Amira and Carver, leaning over the railing. Amira waves me over.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” she says, having to raise her voice above the noise. “Everything OK with the job?”

  I pull the painkillers out and give them a shake. “Smooth as.”

  “Good. We’ve been getting a lot of new work offers after yesterday, so we need to stay focused.”

  “Relax, boss,” says Carver, leaning with his back to the railing and stretching his neck out, gazing up at the ceiling. “We’re golden. Or at least, Riley’s golden,” he adds, jerking a thumb in my direction. “I’ve never had so many people request a tracer personally.”

  “Where are the Twins?” I ask.

  “Back at the Nest,” says Amira. “Although Kevin still isn’t too happy about last night.” She gives Carver a pointed look. He’s suddenly gone very quiet.

  There’s movement off to one side of the gallery. A roar goes up from the crowd and, at first, I think Darnell is being brought out, but then I see that it’s the council, led by Okwembu, walking towards the dais. There are six of them, grey men and women who look nervous facing the people, as if it’s them being judged. Only Okwembu, standing out front, looks confident and proud, her chin up, raising a hand to greet the crowd. Her eyes sweep the catwalks above her. It might be my imagination, but I swear that when she looks at the area I’m standing in, she smiles.

  “Okwembu came to see me,” I mutter, then wish I hadn’t.

  “What?” Amira yells – the noise has rocketed, a thundering boom in the enclosed space that has my stomach rumbling with its sheer force.

  I reluctantly raise my voice a notch, leaning in closer. “Okwembu. When I was at the hospital in New Germany, she was there. She asked to see me.”

  I see Amira’s eyes widen in astonishment, and she’s about to say something when Darnell is hustled out of one of the corridors, and the crowd explodes.

  He wears the same grey prison jumpsuit, his hands cuffed in front of him, his ankles shackled. His arms are gripped on each side by stompers in full body armour. Darnell dwarfs his escort, and they have to march in double time simply to keep up with his huge strides. The leering grin is back on his face.

  I’m half expecting people to throw things, but nothing comes – they don’t want to waste anything, I guess. It doesn’t stop them from jeering, and loud boos and catcalls are hurled out from all around me.

  Amira leans into my field of view, but I can’t hear what she’s saying, and after a moment of fruitless shouting she gives up. Her eyes hold plenty of unanswered questions, and it’s clear we’re not done just yet.

  Darnell is led to the area in front of the council platform. The stompers don’t raise their stingers, but even from the catwalk, I can see them tense.

  On the platform, one of the men steps forward, and the crowd noise ebbs slightly. He’s surprisingly young – his forties, maybe, which is unusual for a council member. Most of them make their way up the political ranks over time: level chief to deputy sector chief and then representing their home sector on the council. That can take years – spots on the council don’t open often.

  The man is holding some sort of device to his mouth, which allows him to transmit through the comms.

  “Oren Darnell,” his voice booms, echoing off the walls. “You are accused by this council of the following crimes …”

  As he begins to list the charges, someone grips my shoulder and pulls me backwards.

  For a terrible moment, I’m certain it’s one of the Lieren, and I’m about to have a blade rammed into the small of my back. I spin around, ready to attack, and find myself staring into the face of an old woman. She’s wearing a blue headscarf, and it takes a second for me to place her.

  The market. The strange woman in the crowd.

  She embraces me, placing her mouth by my right ear. “I can’t believe I found you again,” she says, her high voice cutting through the noise. I try to say something, to ask who she is, but she cuts me off, squeezing me tighter, her voice urgent and husky in my ear. “My name is Grace Garner. I was Marshall Foster’s assistant. I have to talk to you – there’
s something you need to know.”

  “Tell me,” I say.

  Garner pulls back, looks me in the eyes. “Not here. We need to talk in private.”

  A million questions fly around my head. Why is she telling me? And how does she know who I am? The fear is back, the cold fingers tracing the curve of my neck. Behind me, I can feel Amira and Carver tensing, not knowing who the woman is, or whether I’m in any danger. The people around me are starting to take an interest; I can see a couple straining to hear our conversation, desperate to catch what might be a new piece of gossip. In the background, I can still hear the man from the council rattling off a list of crimes.

  I’m about to tell her to go and wait in the Nest, or the market, but an idea suddenly hits.

  “Go to Gardens,” I say. “The Air Lab. Ask for a man named Prakesh Kumar – Prakesh Kumar,” I repeat, raising my voice. “Tell him I sent you, and tell him that you’re to wait for me there. I’ll come and find you.”

  It’s then that I notice how terrified Garner looks, how worn. But she nods again, gives me a final squeeze, and vanishes into the crowd.

  Carver leans in. “What was that all about?” he shouts, but before I can answer, I hear the announcer ask Darnell to respond to the charges.

  Darnell stands proud, his grin wider than ever, staring around the galleries expectantly. One of the stompers, his stinger up, steps forward and holds one of the speaker devices to Darnell’s mouth. He keeps it a fair distance away, as if he’s worried Darnell might lunge forwards and bite him.

  Looking directly at the council, Darnell says, very clearly, “Guilty as charged.”

  The roar from the crowd is the loudest yet, a shocked eruption of sound. Amira places her hands over her ears; mine are already gently aching from the noise, and I follow suit.

  At that moment, with a sickening click, every fluorescent light in the room dies, plunging us into the darkness.

  There’s a split second of stunned silence, then the shouting starts again. This time, the noise is fearful, with screams starting to slip into the noise, like daggers through a ribcage. Behind me, I can feel the crowd on the catwalk spinning in place, hands frantically reaching out to try and grab friends, family.

  The noise builds to a crescendo, and with a huge flare of light from below, a massive explosion rocks the gallery.

  28

  Prakesh

  Prakesh’s footsteps reverberate on the metal as he walks across the labs. There are a few other techs tending to the trees; one of them is suspended from a pulley system, legs akimbo over a branch. He glances down as Prakesh walks underneath him, his face expressionless.

  Prakesh ignores him. Truth be told, he hasn’t had a lot of time to talk to the other techs. Not since Oren Darnell got caught. All those people hunting for the top spot has left a lot of work unfinished, a lot of soil untended. Prakesh doesn’t mind. The extra work means he doesn’t have to think. He can take Riley and Mr Darnell and just ignore them for a while, letting his hands get good and filthy.

  He needs a fresh pH monitor – the one he and Suki were using is dead, its batteries drained. The Air Lab and the Food Lab share a single tool-storage unit, which is just inside the Food Lab. Prakesh slips through the door connecting the two. The air changes. It’s darker in here, more humid, and he can feel the heat baking off the greenhouses. The bass rumble from the buzz box rattles the back of his skull.

  Prakesh stops. He takes a deep breath, inhaling wet air, picking up a dozen different scents. He can smell strawberries, and pumpkins, and the earthy musk of the potatoes in the far corner, hidden under dark covers. He can smell the refrigerant from the air conditioning, sharp and unpleasant.

  And there’s something else. Something he can’t place.

  He shakes his head, and keeps walking.

  The tool storage is just ahead, a long, thin structure lit from within by glaring lights. It looks as if the building is on fire, like it’s containing something white hot. Prakesh pays it no attention, striding up to the counter. He’ll talk to Deakin, the guy in charge of storage. Mention the weird smell. Odds are, it’s just a new fertiliser someone’s using.

  But Deakin isn’t at the desk. Prakesh leans over it, twisting his head to take in the stores. There’s no one there – just the tools, hanging from hooks and balanced precariously on rusted shelves. The seed bank is at the back, a huge walk-in freezer, its door shut tight and sealed with a keypad.

  “Deakin?” Prakesh says. Then, louder: “You there?”

  No answer. Just the insects in the buzz box, humming away.

  Prakesh decides to vault the counter and pick out what he needs. He can see a tab screen off to one side, which means he can leave Deakin a note. But just as he puts his hands on the countertop, he registers movement behind him.

  He whirls, thinking only of Darnell, of how close he was before, but there’s no one there.

  He takes another deep breath, turns back, and that’s when he catches sight of Deakin.

  The store controller is standing by one of the greenhouses, his back to Prakesh. He’s looking up at the ceiling, his arms hanging by his sides. He appears to be taking deep breaths, his shoulders rising and falling.

  “Deak,” says Prakesh, not understanding the prickles of fear scurrying across his shoulder blades and along the back of his neck. “Need to take out a pH monitor, man. Could you—”

  “I never got to see her,” Deakin says.

  Prakesh freezes. There is something in Deak’s voice he doesn’t like at all. He takes a step closer.

  Deak turns. He’s an older man, over fifty, but in the blazing light from the stores he looks thirty years younger. His eyes are wet with tears.

  And in that instant, Prakesh realises what the strange smell is. It’s the burned-plastic stench of ammonia. Specifically, ammonium nitrate, a compound created from fertiliser.

  Deakin’s shirt is open. Underneath it, he’s wearing a vest of some kind, a mess of plastic and metal and cotton pouches. His fingers are wrapped around a thin cord, leading right to the centre of his chest.

  “I never got to see the Earth,” Deakin says, and pulls the cord.

  29

  Riley

  The shockwave rips through the catwalk, and I feel the metal buckle as the rivets struggle to hold it in place. The world is filled with a horrible orange light. My hands over my ears saved me from the worst of it, but it’s still loud enough to shake my bones.

  Someone collides with me, and I’m thrown to the right. I land on someone else, with only a moment to gasp for breath before another body collapses right on top of me. My hands are wrenched from my ears, and the noise swells back into a dying bass note and the terrified roar of the crowd. Underneath us, the catwalk gives another sickening lurch. The overhead lights flash back on. The people around me are on the floor, bodies piling on top of each other, thrashing, yelling, scrambling for grip.

  Whoever landed on top of me is heavy, his elbow pushing painfully into my chest. Over my shoulder, I see Amira grab the railing and leap into space.

  For a moment, I’m convinced she’s been thrown to her death by the twisting catwalk. I push the man off me with strength I didn’t know I had, and scramble to the railing. Then I see her hands gripped onto it, and I realise what both she and Carver have done. To escape the crowd, they flipped themselves onto the outside edge of the railing. Bending their legs and arms, they flexed with the catwalk and held on, away from the crush of bodies. If I hadn’t been hit, I’d have done the same thing.

  Amira grabs my hand, and starts to pull herself over. As she does so, I see what’s below us, and for a moment, I just stop breathing.

  The bomb detonated right in the middle of the crowd. The black, burned ring around the centre of the blast is scattered with blood and torn clothing. Darnell is gone, the barricades knocked over, the stompers scattered and shouting. Okwembu and the rest of the council are nowhere to be seen. The Level 1 catwalk has been sheared in half, with the broken edges tw
isted upwards. The Level 2 catwalk just below us is intact, but only just: the metal plates are bulging in the middle, as if a giant hand had pushed them from beneath. People lie sprawled along it; knocked senseless by the blast.

  Far below, a man tries to crawl away, pulling himself along the ground with one arm. His other is gone at the shoulder, leaving nothing more than a nub of bone surrounded by pulpy wetness. Dark blood stains his side. As I watch, he reaches out his remaining arm, as if hunting for something he can no longer see. Then he falls still. Around him lie charred bodies. Some are still smoking.

  The scene before me seems too vivid. I can feel it fixing in my mind, its awful roots digging deep and refusing to let go.

  I shut my eyes tight and pull, hauling Amira over the railing.

  Carver flips himself over too, landing squarely on someone’s back. He hops off, a horrified expression on his face, and turns to us. His mouth is moving, but I can’t make out the words, and it’s only then that I notice the siren blaring from the comms. I’m shaking, and I reach up to block my ears again, but then the siren cuts off abruptly. It’s replaced by a voice, female, automated. And far too calm.

  “Warning. Fire detected in Apogee sector. Fire detected in Gardens sector. Please move calmly to your nearest evacuation point. Warning …”

  And as the message repeats itself, Amira meets my eye, and the same horrifying realisation seems to dawn.

  Prakesh. The Air Lab.

  He always hated the trials. He’s never been to one, always refused, said they were barbaric. He’ll still be there, in the Air Lab. And if someone let off a bomb there …

  The catwalk under us groans. The left side sags, then jerks downwards, sending shockwaves up through our feet. The shockwave from the bomb has weakened it – all that old metal, some of it a hundred years old. Around us, more panic starts to spread through the crowd: their senses heightened by fear and adrenaline, they begin to push, crushing up against the entrances on either side, a seething mass of flesh.