by Rob Boffard
“It’s just …” He shakes his head. “We’ve come a long way on faith, Riley.”
“Don’t,” I say. My voice, drained and weary, doesn’t communicate the anger I feel.
He continues, unfazed. “What happens if she can’t help us? What then?”
“I don’t know,” I say through gritted teeth. It sounds helpless, pathetic. And he’s right: if she can’t help us, then Yao – and Carver, possibly – died for nothing. Not to mention Amira, who could be anywhere.
We try to minimise the noise we make, but with every step the metal clangs and booms, sounding too loud in the quiet of the Air Lab. We’re just at the top of the stairs, stepping onto the bottom part of the gantry, when a voice booms out from far below, somewhere under the trees.
“My offer’s still open. Better take it – unless, of course, you want your friend to contribute some flesh in your place.”
Zhao.
Prakesh and I crouch quickly, ducking behind the metal barriers on the gantry. And then I see them, through a gap in the metal. Five of them, scratched and bleeding, but very much alive. Zhao standing at the back, his arms folded, death on his face. And lying at his feet, her hands bound behind her, her eyes closed: Amira.
All at once, there’s too much saliva in my mouth, like the feeling you get before you vomit. There’s no sign of Kev or Carver. Zhao continues, raising his voice, and this time the anger in his voice is palpable. “You think this is a joke? I know you’re up there somewhere – you and your scientist friend.”
I know you’re up there somewhere. We’re off to one side, partially hidden by the curve of the control room wall. He’s seen us go up, but he doesn’t know where we are. I meet Prakesh’s eyes, and I can see he’s realised it too.
He leans forward, bringing his mouth to my ear. “I’m going to make a dash for the control room. Wait for my signal.”
“Signal?” I hiss back, but he’s up, running along the catwalk to one of the doors. I hear a shout of triumph from below as Zhao spots him, and I have to force myself not to leap to my feet.
“Hiding in there won’t help you,” shouts Zhao. “Hey, Riley,” he continues, and the laughter in his voice chills me to the bone. “Do you think your friend here will notice when we start? Marco hit her over the head pretty hard, but I’m hoping she’s awake enough to know what’s happening.”
I’m clenching my fists so hard that my hands have gone white. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to help Amira. There’s nothing Prakesh can do: what weapons is he planning on finding in the control room? Bags of fertiliser?
49
Prakesh
As it happens, fertiliser is exactly what Prakesh is thinking. More specifically, he’s thinking about ammonium nitrate.
He sprints through the door to the Air Lab control room, ignoring the shouts from the Lieren below. He’s expecting to find some techs there, but they’re all in the mobile labs, and the room is mercifully empty. Oren Darnell’s barrels of water squat at the back of the room, their surfaces rippling.
The only internal light comes from the computer screens. Prakesh is still sprinting, and doesn’t see the knocked-over chair until his feet are tangled in it. He goes down, bloodying his nose on the floor, fists pounding the metal in frustration even as he gets to his feet.
Blood gushes down his chin, and he can feel his bottom lip swelling too. He ignores it, stumbling to the screens and hunting through them for the right menu.
Prakesh knows how fire works. Every single tech on the station goes through a fire prevention course, where they learn about things like backdraught, and chain reactions, and oxidizers. Even fire which spreads like liquid and bites through chemical foam has to behave, in some ways, like fire. You can starve it of air to put it out, but it’ll just lie dormant, smouldering. If you add the right mix of air back into the environment, and come up with a suitable ignition source, then you can restart that fire.
Prakesh begins to pump air from the Air Lab to the Food Lab, sucking it through the vents. He’s going to have to control the flow precisely, reversing it and cutting it off at just the right moments. If he screws this up, he’ll bathe the Air Lab in fire.
In seconds, the oxygen levels in the Food Lab have risen. Prakesh has already picked an ignition source. The main fuse array in the Food Lab will have been destroyed by the fire, but Prakesh doesn’t need it to power anything. He needs it to be broken, because he needs the spark. Even a single wire, its insulation burned away, will do it.
He grits his teeth, and activates the fuse array.
Nothing. The power indicators on screen remain stubbornly blank.
Blood drips onto the screen from his damaged nose. He hits the option again, then a third time, willing the fuse array to work.
50
Riley
I risk another peek over the railing, and the sight brings my heart to my mouth.
One of the Lieren, his back to me, is crouching over Amira, dragging a knife delicately over her forehead. She shifts, groans, as the point of the blade touches her skin.
“You’ve got about ten seconds before we start,” says Zhao. “And I should warn you: I never like telling my boys to stop once they get going.”
Something tickles my throat. I ignore it, but it comes back, demanding attention.
I look up, and my eyes widen: the entire top half of the hangar is wreathed in grey and white smoke. The air-conditioning vents have been activated, and smoke from the Food Lab fire is pumping in, drifting down onto the Air Lab below.
Prakesh, you genius.
“Have it your way then,” says Zhao, but then I hear a puzzled shout from one of the others. The smoke is thicker now; I drop my head to the floor, where the air is still just clean.
I take a deep breath, and hold it.
Zhao’s voice drifts up from below: “Where’s it coming from? Marco, I thought you said the fire was only in the Food Lab.”
“It was!” says Marco, his voice muffled by his smashed nose. “Zhao, I’m telling you, I don’t know what this is.”
The smoke has reached the floor level, shrouding the Lieren in a white fog. And at that instant, I stand up, anger burning in my veins like a hot, bright filament, and hurl myself off the gantry.
I can’t see the ground below me – the smoke has got so thick that the ground has vanished. I pull my legs up, bending my knees and tucking my arms, ready for the roll, hoping that I’ve done it in time. When I do hit the ground, a second later, my ankles explode with a pain that shoots rapidly up my legs and into the base of my spine.
But I was ready for it, prepared for the impact, and even before I register the pain, I’m rolling forwards. The landing forces me to exhale, and as I spring upwards from the roll, already scanning for the Lieren, I have to suck in another breath. The smoke sinks in, clawing at my throat, but there’s just enough clear air left to breathe.
One of the Lieren appears out of the smoke. This time, I don’t bother lashing out; I go low, channelling all the energy from the roll into a shoulder-charge which takes him at the knees.
He’s a lot bigger than I am, but the rage I’m feeling gives me strength and the hit sends him flying, filling the space above with flailing arms and legs. I catch an expression of total surprise on his face, and then he’s gone, hitting the ground so hard that I hear his skull crack.
No time to congratulate myself. Even before I’m up, another Lieren has materialised out of the smoke, waving a knife before him. He slashes out, his eyes wide, but I dodge to the left, grabbing his wrist and yanking it upwards. He screams in pain, a sound cut off a second later when I plant my elbow in his mouth. I feel one of his teeth break through the sleeve of my jacket, but I’m already pushing him aside.
This is different to when I’m running. Then, I’m on autopilot, my body responding to muscle memory, the focus so effortless it’s like a second skin. This? This feels like someone just plugged me into the station’s fusion reactor and flipped the switch. My musc
les are rods of iron, my teeth clenched, my vision razor-sharp, even as the smoke gets thicker. Everything Amira taught me about fighting is right in the front of my mind, like I’ve opened a book. In the background, somewhere unimportant, lies the dull ache in my lungs, burned raw with smoke.
Two more Lieren fly out of the gloom; I gut-punch one, throwing every atom of energy I can find into it. He goes down, but a split second later a line of fire burns on my shoulder; the other Lieren has cut me, slashing downwards through my jacket. My arm is instantly soaked in hot blood. But the pain just focuses me further, and I swing round, ducking under his next slash, before driving the heel of my hand upwards into his face.
He tries to knock the blow aside, but he’s too slow, and his chin cracks under my hit. He falls, his eyes rolling back in his skull. The smoke is almost impenetrable now. What little fresh air I was getting is gone, and the slight pause in the fight causes the ache in my lungs to rocket up into my skull, clanging with pain. I’m bent double by hacking coughs, dimly aware that my right arm is wet and sticky with blood.
As I reach up to touch the wound, Zhao Zheng lunges out of the fog, whirling two more knives in front of him, murder on his face.
I have a moment to wonder where he got the knives, whether he had more on him or took them from the fallen Lieren, before I hurl myself backwards, tucking into a clumsy roll as I feel one of the knives slash so close that the air moves across my forehead. The adrenaline that focused me, that let me take down the Lieren so easily, has drained away, replaced by a leaden exhaustion. I spring out of the roll, my chest on fire and my vision blurred, as Zhao leaps forward again.
You don’t survive as a gang leader on Outer Earth without some serious moves. I dodge once, twice, desperately looking for an opening, but Zhao lets nothing through. Another slash tags my forehead, singing with pain. Blood drips into my eyes as I try to circle round him. He jabs to the right, but as I dodge away I realise it was a feint – only a nanosecond of reaction saves me from being skewered in the stomach. He dives forward, leading this time with both blades, sure of his aim.
A black form explodes out of the fog, tackling him round the waist and sending him flying through the air. Zhao and Prakesh crash to the ground, a tangle of limbs. Prakesh rolls away, and then I’m on top of my enemy, my knee in his throat. Zhao’s lost one of his blades, but still has the other in a tight grip. He tries to raise it, but I grab his hand and twist.
Zhao yells in fury, dropping the blade. He tries to rise, but I slam my knee back into his throat with every ounce of venom I can put behind it. He gags, fights for breath, tries again to force me off him, but the strength has gone out of him. His arms flail against me, but I barely feel them.
I start punching him. And I don’t stop.
My knuckles rip and tear and shred as his face explodes with blood and bruises. I’m yelling something, words maybe, I don’t know. Everything is just white; I can’t tell where the smoke ends and my vision begins. My hands go numb, and it’s only when his face is a jagged mash of blood and broken teeth that Prakesh pulls me off him.
“Riley, that’s enough,” he says. My first instinct is to rip out of his grasp, to attack Zhao again, but I don’t. Horror and elation cascade through me, colliding together.
We stand, our shoulders heaving, and it comes to me that I’m breathing actual air. I look around, startled; the smoke seems to have cleared somewhat, drifting away into the Air Lab. Prakesh must have killed the vents. Zhao lies before us, breathing in wet gasps, his face a ruin.
And then, from the trees: “Is it over?”
Her hands are clutching a blue scarf, which has slipped off her head and lies bunched at her throat. Her face is creased with worry, her shoulders trembling.
Grace Garner.
51
Riley
I have to stop myself from gulping the water in the cup. I take small sips, savouring it.
Amira, Garner and I are in one of the control rooms above the Air Lab. The room is dark, with the only light coming from the screens and control panels on the walls.
The water helps, but there’s nothing for my aching knuckles. Prakesh is checking on his trees, making sure the smoke didn’t damage the young ones.
I’m seated on a pile of fertiliser bags, my hands throbbing with pain. I’ve bent them in half-fists, and my knuckles are little more than torn shreds of flesh. The cuts in my arm and forehead aren’t deep, but they’re still singing with pain. Amira, freed of her bonds, is leaning against one of the control panels, massaging her wrists. An ugly, black bruise is already forming on her cheek.
She’s been silent ever since we brought her up here, occasionally rubbing the stumps of her missing fingers. She’s lost her scarf somewhere, and the expression on her face is impossible to read.
Beside her, Grace Garner is in the room’s lone chair, hunched forwards, hands clasped around another cup of water. Her face has more lines on it than I remember. I want to ask her about Darnell, Gray, Marshall Foster, the Sons of Earth, everything, but something inside tells me to wait.
Several times, Garner opens her mouth, seems about to speak, but then stops, like she too isn’t sure of where to start. Eventually, she says, “I thought you’d never come.”
I smile, despite myself. “The trains were running late.”
She doesn’t smile. “I got caught up in the crowds after …” She clears her throat. “After the bombs went off. I didn’t even know there’d been one in Gardens until later. It was awful. People screaming, people pushing me.”
“How did you get into the Air Lab?”
“It took me a long time to get here, and it got worse. People were trying to break in. To salvage food, I think. There were protection officers here, trying to hold them back. I knew one of them, and asked him to hide me. The look on his face when I first saw him … it was like he didn’t recognise me at all.” At this, her voice cracks, and silent tears begin to run down her cheeks.
She shakes her head, and seems to be steeling herself to continue. “But he helped me, eventually. Sneaked me through a back way. That man you told me to find, the one who was with you – he wasn’t here. There were others, other techs. They chased me, but I got away and I hid. Then the smoke came, and then …”
“You found us,” says Amira. Her voice is an impatient croak.
“Grace,” I say. “You worked with Marshall Foster. Why did they have him killed?”
Something changes in her eyes – a tiny fragment of old strength that comes creeping back. It’s only then that I really notice the high cheekbones, the lips, still full. She was beautiful, once.
“I was his assistant for years,” she replies. “I served under him when he was on the council. He was in charge of the Outer Earth digital systems – all the computer codes and subroutines that keep the station running were maintained by him. Marshall asked me to come with him when he retired, so we settled in Apogee. We were close, closer than you can imagine. And then …”
She stops, her head bowed.
“Gray,” I say.
Garner nods. “I was reading in our room. Marshall collected books – he hoarded them while he was on the council. Silly habit of his, but I liked them.
“I wasn’t really paying attention, and I didn’t even hear Marshall come in until he grabbed my hands. I’d never seen him look so terrified. He didn’t say anything, just grabbed me out of my chair. He wouldn’t tell me what was happening. He lifted up one of the panels on the floor that we used for storage and told me to get in. It was a tiny space, and I could barely scrunch down in it.”
“So you just obeyed him?” asks Amira.
“What was I supposed to do?” says Garner, her voice turning into a wail. “I’d taken orders from him my whole life. He was everything to me. And I knew he wanted to keep me safe. I wanted to know what was going on, but he still wouldn’t tell me. I’d never seen him like that. And still, he … he wouldn’t tell me why.”
“What did he say?” I a
sk.
“He said he was sorry. He said that no matter what happened, he … he loved me, and he was sorry for everything he’d done, but I had to hide for as long as possible. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about, that he didn’t have anything to be sorry for, but then he said he needed to tell me something else, that there wasn’t much time.”
The tears are streaming down her cheeks. Her hands are limp in her lap. I can’t even imagine what she’s been through, hiding in the trees, waiting for someone who might never show up. Knowing that the entire world was collapsing around her, and that the man she trusted was dead.
After a few moments, I rise off the fertiliser sacks and walk over, crouching in front of her. Her face is red and blotchy, streaked with the shiny tracks of tears. “I know this is hard for you,” I say, “but we’re running out of time. There are people who want to destroy Outer Earth, and whatever Marshall Foster told you might be able to stop them.”
I don’t know if this is true or not. But I have to try.
“He told me to find a tracer named Riley Hale in Apogee,” she says.
“Why me?”
“I don’t know. He told me I had to give you a piece of information … but it didn’t make any sense. I don’t know what it means. I tried to get him to tell me, but he said … he said there wasn’t any time. The last thing he said to me was that you’d know what to do with it when the time came.”
I raise my face to hers, and she says, “He told me to give you a word. Iapetus. That’s all.”
She must see the look of confusion on my face, because she says, “It’s one of Saturn’s moons. But I never got a chance to ask what the word meant, or what it was used for.” She shrugs helplessly. “He told me that, and then he was gone. I never saw him again.” More tears come.
Iapetus.
I rack my brain for any mention of the word before. Nothing comes. Why would Foster say that I’d know what to do with it? I never knew him, I’ve never heard the word before, and even if I had, I have no clue how it helps us defeat Darnell.
