by Rob Boffard
Okwembu steps past Darnell, and crouches down, so that she’s level with Morton. He’s shaking his head now, not understanding, not wanting to understand.
“Janice, please,” he says. “What you’re doing … this is insane.”
“No, it’s not,” she says quietly, her eyes never leaving him. “You know what’s insane, Charles? You. Sitting in that chamber for years, trying to legislate for this station, like it could make a single bit of difference.”
“But Outer Earth—”
“Isn’t worth keeping alive any more.”
Morton’s fear is starting to be replaced by anger, furious and disbelieving. “So you kill your colleagues? Torture them? It’s monstrous.”
“Yes,” she says, standing, glancing at Darnell. “But necessary.”
She walks away, not looking back. Morton tries to rise, pushing himself up to one knee. Darnell reaches down and draws the knife across his throat.
Morton takes a whole minute to die.
As Darnell turns away, he finally registers the burn on his arm, the one he got from the plasma cutter. He runs a finger along it, registering the pain but not responding to it. His stomach turns over, not from revulsion, but from hunger. When did he last eat? Or sleep? He doesn’t remember, and at that moment it doesn’t seem important.
He takes a step, then stops. The corridor swims in front of him, and he has to put a hand on the wall to steady himself. The memory comes, arriving to replace the pain, and he’s halfway through it before he even knows it’s there. The memory of his family’s hab.
Darnell had given up keeping track of the number of species he’d managed to cultivate – they all blended into each other, sprouting flowers and swollen fruit and questing tendrils. He had to be careful not to step on the plants or trip over their roots. He didn’t mind.
Nobody asked after his mother. At first, he’d been worried that they would, but nobody wanted to get involved. He kept collecting food packages from the mess, and would eat them standing up, alone in the hab.
On one particular day, he was just leaving for school, closing the hab door behind him. He was thinking about a new cultivar he was trying, one which wouldn’t …
“Son?”
The man’s eyes were bright over thin-rimmed glasses. He wore brown overalls, and carried a tab screen in one hand. He looked down at the screen, squinting. “Hab 6-21-E … Darnell family. Your parents’ home?”
Darnell shook his head. “Dad’s dead. And my mom’s not at home.”
“Ten-year maintenance inspection, son. Gotta make sure the chemical toilet doesn’t need repair. Look here, see? My ID.”
He held up the tab screen, showing the Outer Earth logo along with the words Maintenance Corps. Underneath the words, there was a pixelated photograph, and the name Mosely, Lewis J., Inspection Officer.
Darnell shrugged. “I’ll tell my mom you came by.”
Mosely smiled. “I don’t think we need to trouble her, do you?”
“I gotta go to school,” Darnell said, turning to lock the door behind him.
He didn’t get the chance. Mosely reached over and pushed it open, and before Darnell could stop him, stepped inside. Darnell didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
“Won’t be a second, son,” Mosely said. “Then we can—”
His words choked off as he saw the inside of the hab. Mosely turned, his hand over his mouth. Darnell remembers stepping backwards as Mosely let go, vomiting all over the door.
“Are you coming?” Okwembu says from the far end of the corridor.
Darnell looks up, the memory vanishing like smoke. He takes off after Okwembu, stepping over Morton’s body. There’s a distant stinging from his arm, the smell of burned fabric, but he’s barely aware of them now.
“I want to talk to our friend,” he says, as he catches up with Okwembu. She’s at the bottom of a flight of steps, walking down a long passage towards a door. “I want to know where he is.”
“You will,” she says. “Once Hale has found Garner, and we’ve got what we needed.”
At the mention of Hale, a comfortable rage flares inside him. All the same, he’s about to tell Okwembu to do what he says when she opens the door, and then every thought he has falls away.
He’s looking at the main control room of Outer Earth.
The room is as long and narrow as the corridor, with screens arrayed across each wall. Darnell touches the nearest one, and it responds smoothly at his touch, menu options appearing under his fingertips. Orientation. Lighting Circuits. Core Operations.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Okwembu says. “When you’re ready, come back to the main council chamber. We’ll do another broadcast from there.”
Darnell barely hears her. He’s moving down the room, hardly knowing where to look next, a giant grin on his face. Then his eyes fall on one particular display, and his grin gets even wider.
“I’ll be along in a minute,” he says, taking a seat at the screen.
47
Riley
Zhao breaks the silence. He gives an inhuman yell as he flies towards a startled Carver, his hands twisted into claws. But then Amira is there, darting across the room and slamming into him, pushing him into the wall, past a startled Kev, still frozen in shock.
“Run!” she shouts.
Prakesh grabs my arm. The Lieren are stunned, but only for a moment. Then they’re giving chase, filling the corridor behind us with angry shouts. There are people further down the corridor, but they shrink against the wall with expressions of terror.
I run on automatic, my feet pulling me forwards all on their own. But my mind is lingering, staring into Yao’s eyes, hearing that last whisper of her breath. Alongside me, I can hear Prakesh’s breathing, heavy and ragged. There’s someone else alongside us – Carver, I think. I don’t know where Kev and Amira are.
Slowly, the cries of the Lieren vanish behind us. For a while, I lose track of where we’re going. Prakesh is leading the way; he must be taking us towards Gardens. My chest is burning with the effort, and my calves are nothing more than twin slabs of aching flesh.
The guilt comes, blossoming in my mind like a diseased flower. If I hadn’t attacked Marco, if I’d stayed down after that ambush, then Yao would still be alive. The realisation nearly doubles me over. I stumble to a halt, retching helplessly, desperately wanting to throw up, to force the feeling out of me, but nothing comes. I’m too shocked to cry; all I can do is hold my stomach as a creeping numbness spreads up my limbs.
Prakesh has run ahead, but he turns back when he realises I’m no longer with him. “What are you doing?” he rasps, his voice ragged with effort. “We have to keep moving. Come on.”
There’s a hand on my back. Carver is crouching down, looking up at me. His arm is crusted with jagged strips of blood.
“Ry,” he says quietly. The kindness in his eyes takes a second to register. “We can’t worry about it now. We have to finish this. For Yao.”
Slowly, I nod.
The lights go out with a soft buzz, leaving us standing in pitch darkness. “What the hell?” Prakesh says, and then gets control of himself. “I know where this goes. Hopefully we can get to the tracks.”
The further we run, the more chaotic the station seems to become. Now it’s not just angry crowds hurling threats – it’s full-on running battles, stompers with stingers and stun-sticks raised, plunging into huge brawls in the corridors and galleries. The fate of my crew, the death of Yao, all of it digs into my mind, and every fibre of my body tells me to turn back and find them. But I push forwards, because deep down I know Carver is right. I’ve got a job to do, and this whole situation is getting worse by the second. Darnell and the Sons of Earth are still in control. They could do anything: more fires, more bombs, even open one of the other airlocks and shoot all our air into space, suffocating us where we stand.
Every moment of my life – every moment of almost everyone’s life – has been lived on Outer Earth. This station is my home, as
familiar and comforting as an embrace. But in the hands of Darnell, it feels like it’s been turned against me. Like every floor plate has become a trapdoor, and every pipe has a tripwire tied tightly around it.
We hit the stairs. They’re almost silent around us; there’s shouting in the distance, but I can’t tell if it’s another crowd or the Lieren coming after us. Little by little, we adjust to the darkness, and I find I can make out the floor ahead of us.
My thoughts drift to the asteroid catcher ships. There are only two left – big, hulking vessels with skeleton crews. What if the Sons succeed, and kill everyone on the station? The ships will return to find that they’re the last humans in the universe. Where would they go? Would they try to return to Earth? Would they contact each other? Or just continue into deep space, drifting until their supplies run out and their engines sputter and die?
We’ve been climbing in silence, and every so often Prakesh will reach a hand back – I squeeze it, hoping that it’s enough. But I’m deep in thought when I realise that the stairwell is getting lighter: whatever killed the lights isn’t affecting areas above us. Before long, we hit the top level of the sector, and then we’re climbing the stairs to the monorail platform.
And then, a triumphant shout from behind us: “Found you!”
Lieren: two of them, both carrying knives, their features hidden in the shadows. Can we risk running in the tunnels? Should we double back? I’m frantically running through places where we could lose them.
It’s then that I realise Carver isn’t with us. I turn back mid-stride, and see him standing with his back to us, his shoulders squared, facing down the oncoming Lieren. I can’t see his face, but I see his fists in the low light, clenched at his sides.
“Get out of here, Ry,” he says. “I’ll buy you guys some time.”
“Carver, come on!”
But he raises a hand, waving me away – it’s his left hand, and I see his face tense as he does it; it must be screaming at him, racking his body in pain. He’s in no condition to fight. I start towards him, but he senses me coming, and turns, his expression angry.
“Why can’t you just do what you’re told, for once?” he growls, but behind the anger I hear a note of pleading that brings me up short. The Lieren are almost on him, their blades dancing, and he turns back to them, bending his knees slightly.
Prakesh is behind me: “We have to go. Now.”
I wheel around, furious. “We can’t leave him!”
“Yes, you can,” says Carver, and swings his good arm in a huge, pistoning strike that takes one of his attackers in the side of the head and sends him sprawling back down the corridor. The other Lieren pauses, surprised, and then Carver is on him. Prakesh grabs my arm, and then my reserve breaks and we’re running into the darkness, leaving Carver fighting to the death behind us.
48
Riley
It takes a long time for us to adjust to the darkness in the tunnel. Right now, the only thing we can be sure of is that we’re heading in the direction of Gardens. We have to move slowly; the ground under our feet is twisted and uneven, and the tracks are nothing more than thin black lines. Our footsteps echo into the gloom.
“Do you think they’ll follow us in here?” Prakesh asks quietly.
“Probably. But they won’t see us right away. And we have a head start.”
“Thanks to Carver.”
I don’t reply.
Eventually, after what seems like hours, we reach Gardens. The platform is deserted, lit by that ghostly orange light. Soon, we’re on a catwalk high above the main entrance to the Food Lab, which is still spouting puffs of acrid smoke. I can’t see the floor below, but I can hear people down there: it doesn’t sound like a fight, but every so often angry voices are raised: people pleading for food, demanding to be let in.
Right then, there’s the crackle of the comms systems. There’s an enormous screen at the far end of the gallery, and as it flashes up the station logo, a cold chill settles over me. I know exactly what’s coming.
Darnell appears on the screen. He’s seated at the main table in the Apex council chamber, his hands folded in front of him. His frame is too large for the chair he’s sitting in, and he towers over the table. He’s smiling.
“It’s time to make things a little more …” He pauses, as if searching for the right word, then his smile gets wider. “Uncomfortable.”
Now that he’s in the council chamber, there’s no need for him to hack the feed, and the lack of glitches somehow makes it even worse. “We can control the thrusters from here, turn off all the oxygen, even send a little signal down the lines that’ll boil every drop of water on the station into nothingness.”
Prakesh has gone very still. His hand finds mine, and grips it tight. I can’t take my eyes off the screen. Darnell leans back in his chair, his huge hands laced over his stomach. “But none of that seemed to be enough. Not for the people on this station. So we’ve told Outer Earth’s convection systems to cease functioning. It’s not quite as efficient as fire, but it’s so much more fun to watch.” The screen cuts to black.
There’s perhaps half a second of silence before the crowd below us starts screaming. I turn to Prakesh, my eyes wide. I’m no scientist, but I know how this place works. And I know that we’re in serious trouble.
You can heat Outer Earth without too many problems. But cooling it? Keeping the temperature down with a million people, a bunch of power sources and the regular blasts of direct sunlight when the station swings round in its orbit? That takes a lot of work. There are big fins on the station hull, convectors which let the heat just radiate off into space. They rely on coolant, circulating through pipes around the station, an enormous nerve system of liquid which keeps the temperature stable. If they shut down, if the liquid stops flowing …
“How long do we have?” I ask, my voice high and thin.
Prakesh looks away, and for a second I think he hasn’t heard, but then he says, “Probably as long as Darnell’s deadline. A day. Maybe less.”
“Could someone get into the main systems and turn the coolers back on?”
He shakes his head. “No way. Maybe. I don’t know.”
We stand, listening to the chaos unfold below us. Eventually, Prakesh takes his hands off the railing. “This way,” he mutters, straightening up, but instead of moving, he just stands there, hands on his thighs. His face is slick with sweat, his breath coming in huge, ragged gasps. The signs are hard to miss: the quivering calves, the slumped shoulders. Every rookie tracer goes through them. Prakesh is muscled from constant work in the Air Lab, but he’s nowhere near tracer-fit. Not even close.
I crouch down, looking up at him. He tries to force a smile, and doesn’t succeed.
“Will there be food and water? In this little entrance of yours?” I ask. He nods. “Good. And it had better be all natural. I don’t want to be eating any genetic stuff.”
He laughs, forces himself up. I rise with him. “Come on,” I say. “We’re almost there. Let’s get into the Air Lab, and then we can rest. Promise.”
Prakesh takes the lead at a slow jog; I desperately want him to move faster, but bite my tongue, letting him go at his own pace. He leads us off the catwalk and down through a maze of corridors and stairwells, taking us through a couple of keypad-protected doors. The corridors change slightly, the sparse metal plates and recessed lights giving way to banks of computers, some of which look like they haven’t been used in decades. The glaring white lights from the ceiling reflect off the dark screens.
I’m uneasy. We’re so close, and the thought that we might not find Garner – or worse, that the information she has might turn out to be useless – continues to gnaw at me.
“We’re here,” calls Prakesh. He’s gone a little way ahead, to a low door set into the left side of the corridor. He leads me through, and as I come into the room I see him twisting a panel off the wall. I help out, both of us pulling hard, and it comes off in a screech of metal. The space beyond i
s dusty and dirty, but I can see light leaking through from further along.
Without a word, Prakesh slips inside. I follow, and soon we’re in the Air Lab.
We’ve come out onto one of the paths between the algae pools. The huge trees lie silhouetted against the lights. I see a couple of technicians in the distance, off to the right, doing something to the base of one of them.
Whatever carnage the fire wreaked in the Food Lab, it looks as if Prakesh really did stop it reaching the Air Lab. The air, after the stale smokiness of the gallery and the corridors, is refreshingly cool. I’m expecting the lab to be packed with techs, but there are only a few, dotted here and there among the trees. There are voices and loud banging coming from one of the smaller buildings on the other side of the lab – the structures I’ve heard Prakesh calling mobile labs. Must be where they’ve set up food production.
“Let’s look in the control room,” says Prakesh. He points to the huge structure jutting out of the wall, visible through the trees. It’s where I handed the eyeball to Darnell. “If she isn’t there, we can fan out across the lab.”
We head towards the control room, jogging between the algae ponds. Their surfaces are smooth, calm, with only the odd tiny shudder floating through them, as if wind had touched the water. After the insanity of the battle with the Lieren and the run through the station, the ponds are calming.
The control room looms above us, staircases and power lines underneath it. The upper part is level with the tree canopies, and holds a massive window. I can just see inside from where we are, and I scan the rooms for any sign of life, but there’s nothing: just more computers, blinking softly through the glass.
Prakesh points, indicating a narrow staircase off to one side, which leads to the metal gantry that curves around the structure. “What are you going to do after we’ve talked to her?” he says.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “Depends on what she has to say. Maybe she knows what Darnell was trying to get out of Foster.”
