by Rob Boffard
“And you let him?”
“You must believe me, Ms Hale. I never, ever wanted you to go through that,” she says. “I underestimated just how far gone he was. I tried to inject him with an overdose of pain medication, but it didn’t work. I should have taken a more direct approach. For that, I’m sorry.”
I have to force myself to speak now. I’ve lost all feeling in my arm; the pain is a memory, but there’s a lightness there that leaves me afraid. So I find that little coil of hate in my heart, and hold on to it, mentally wrapping fingers around its scales.
“You let Darnell murder the council.”
“They were weak,” she says. “None of them would have had the strength to go through with the plan.”
It’s then that I realise that she’s more insane than I could ever have imagined. Her eyes show nothing: not triumph, not reason, not elation. Just a horrible, green madness. The madness of someone who views people as playthings, as pieces in a game to be moved around at a whim.
“They would have backed out, eventually,” she says. “When they saw what had to be done. And after all, one person can rule just as well as many.”
A thought tugs at me. “The second code,” I say. My voice is croaky, and my breaths are coming too fast. My heart is pumping quickly, far too quickly. I repeat the words, then say, “There was no way you would have got it out of him. My father. He’d never have given it to you.” Even as I realise the implications of my words, a fierce pride burns in my chest.
She actually laughs. “Ms Hale. Your father gave up the code willingly.”
“What?”
“The ship colliding with us would be devastating, but there was a slim chance that some parts of the station would survive. Your father knew that. So I told him that I planned to detonate the Akua the instant that I felt it collide with Outer Earth. Maximum destruction. He believed me, and gave me what I needed.”
Those insane, empty eyes fix on mine. “You saved Outer Earth, Riley Hale. And no one will ever forget you.”
Her words are drowned out by the pounding of my heart. There’s a blackness at the corners of my vision, and all I want to do is close my eyes. Close my eyes and slip away, go somewhere with no pain and no memories. I can’t focus on Okwembu any more; the edges of her form keep blurring, though whether it’s because of tears in my eyes or not, I can’t say. There’s no time left.
Noise. Banging. Something outside the room. Feet on steel plating. With an effort, I lift my head.
There’s a shadow in the doorway to the control room, silhouetted against lights that seem far too bright. It’s a man – he’s holding a stinger, pointed right at us.
No – not at us. At her.
The man speaks. “Janice Okwembu – get on the ground. Now!” Other shapes appear behind the man, blocking out the light.
Okwembu is looking around, first confused, then fearful. She turns to me, and her expression darkens with anger.
“You’re right,” I whisper. “You’re not a very good judge of character.”
Realisation dawns on her face. Maybe she sees something on the screens, or maybe the dots just connect in her mind, but she suddenly understands.
The comms system.
The one I turned on, and never turned off. The one which broadcasts to the entire station.
I guess it really was working.
I hear the men entering the room, heading right towards us. But by then, my eyes are closed, and I’ve fallen sideways off the chair. The coil of hate has come loose, slipping free. There’s nothing to hold on to now.
My body doesn’t slam into the cold steel of the floor. Instead, I just fall.
Forever.
78
Riley
First, there’s nothing.
And then, after some time has passed – hours maybe, or decades – there’s something.
Voices. They’re muffled, and I can’t make out the words. I want to speak to them, to let them know that I’m here. But then the voices fade, and I sink back into the warm darkness.
My eyes are open, and I’m looking at a body, slumped in a chair. The head is lolling on the shoulder, the mouth slightly open. I blink, still unsure of how much time there is between when I close my eyes and when I open them. But when I do, the body is still there, and I see it’s Aaron Carver.
As I watch, he stirs, then stretches, yawns, and rubs his jaw, his hand scraping on stubble. I try to say his name, but my throat is as dry and smooth as old rubber.
I must make some noise, or a movement, because suddenly, he’s looking in my direction, his eyes wide. “Riley,” he says in astonishment, and his voice is so loud that it causes my ears to ring. I squeeze my eyes shut, and it’s at that moment that the pain strikes, stabbing into my body in so many places that I feel like I’m being ripped apart.
At the edge of my vision, I see Carver step forward and adjust something next to my head. Immediately, something cool and wonderful floods through me, first halting the pain, then turning it back. As it dwindles into nothingness, I stare up at Carver, my eyes blurring. I mouth a silent thank you, and he reaches across and places a hand on my stomach.
It’s an odd gesture, but then I remember Okwembu. Cutting my wrist. Pushing the grogginess away, I sit up, my back creaking with the effort.
“Hey, slow down, Ry. Easy,” says Carver.
I’m in a bed, with crisp sheets bundled around my waist. I cough. “Where am I?” I ask. I barely recognise my own voice. It’s not just croaky and dry, but older somehow.
“The hospital in Apogee,” he replies. As he does so, the rest of the room snaps into focus. White, and brightly lit, filled with humming machines and clean lights.
“I didn’t …” I falter. “I thought I was dead.”
“You came pretty close,” he says, flopping back down in the chair. “You must have had some extra blood stashed behind a lung or something, because apparently you were right on the edge. That’s without talking about your other bumps, like that little opening in your side. Or the borderline hypothermia.”
I catch sight of my left wrist: heavily bandaged, and quite numb.
“Oh, you’ll have plenty of scars,” says Carver, a weird smile on his face. “But hey, wear ’em with pride, right?”
He leans forward in his chair. “You did good, Riley. We heard you on the comms. Everybody did. I don’t know how you managed to get through to Apex, but after you turned the convectors back on, everybody stopped fighting.”
“Okwembu? Is she …”
“In the brig, under some serious armed guard,” he says. “They’re talking about keeping her there for a while, trying her when there’s a new elected council. But we heard everything, the whole story. You’re a genius.”
I close my eyes. I suppose I should feel happiness. Or at least, relief. But instead, the coil of hate, which I thought had gone, suddenly unwinds itself, flexing deep in my stomach. I wanted her dead. I wanted her to suffer.
I push it away. “And Darnell?”
“They found his body at the Core entrance in Apex.”
Suddenly, my eyes widen. “Prakesh. Kev. Where are they? Are they OK?”
Carver laughs. “Would you relax? They’re fine. They’re both fine. Prakesh has been kind of amazing, actually. He’s taken over food distribution for, like, three sectors. You should see him, Ry. It’s scary. He came to visit you a few times, but you were out of it.”
“And Kev?”
“Please.” He spreads his arms. “You think a few fat stompers are going to stop us? After you went into the Core, we outran them in about five seconds. Kev’s all good. He’s back to running cargo. Although if he hasn’t made some decent trades, I’m going to kick his ass.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Two days, just about.”
Something he said earlier tugs at me. “You heard me on the comms system. Did you hear …”
He’s avoiding my eyes now, and I know that he doesn’t have to answer. Th
e conversation with my father seems like something out of a dream. I can’t recall all of it, only snatches, expressions, odd words.
I swallow. “The Akua Maru. Is it over?”
He stares at the floor. “The pieces missed us. Riley, I’m so sorry.”
And that’s when the small, dark place at the back of my mind bursts open. It’s the place where I put my memories of Amira and Yao and Garner and, I now realise, my father. It fractures so suddenly that it’s as if someone has punched me in the chest. The scream claws its way up my throat, ripping itself out of me like some kind of horrible, angry animal. When it finally tears free, it’s as if the fracture in the dark place has spread everywhere, ripping my very soul in half. I scream, and scream, and scream, until there’s a tiny jab in my neck and I sink into the darkness again, the scream dwindling to nothing.
When I come back, both Carver and Kev are there. Kev has some nasty bruises, but when he sees me, his face lights up, and he walks to the edge of the bed and hugs me. Behind him, Carver hangs back, a worried look on his face.
There’s less pain than before. I manoeuvre myself into a sitting position and swing my legs off the edge of the bed. There’s a dull ache, but nothing more. Can we ever run together again? Will the Dancers still exist without Amira, without Yao?
The scream, born from that coil of hate, has left behind its offspring, squatting in my gut. They’ll always be there.
But I show none of this. I can’t.
Instead, I stick a smile on my face, look Kev in the eye, and say, “Help me up.”
He lifts me to my feet, his huge arms taking the weight of my slender frame easily. He grimaces, more in amusement than anything else. “What are you wearing?”
I look down. It’s a smock of some sort, reaching to just above my knees. Slowly, I reach behind me, and feel the back of it. Or rather, where the back should be.
“Please tell me someone saved my clothes,” I mutter, as Carver and Kev collapse in howls of laughter. Soon, I’m laughing too, even as I keep one hand scrunching up the fabric firmly behind my back.
They find me some trousers, a loose shirt, a spare pair of shoes. There’s no sign of my father’s jacket, and neither of them mention anything. For a moment, I want to ask them about it, but then I realise that if I had it back, I’d never wear it again. Maybe it’s best that I don’t know where it is.
The guys try and support me as we leave the room, but I shrug them off, walking hesitantly at first, and then with more confidence. Two doctors try to stop us, but I wave them aside, muttering that I’m fine.
We leave the hospital, walking down one of the corridors in the direction of the gallery. Apogee is a mess. There’s trash everywhere: overturned crates, pieces of equipment, smashed lights, crumpled trays from the canteen. But oddly, it doesn’t feel like a bad place. Nothing like it was when we had to escape the crowds who wanted to tear us apart. The thought is a strange one, another memory that feels like it happened in a different lifetime.
The people we pass make a pretence of ignoring us, but I catch them staring at me as we walk by. A few of them whisper to each other, and one or two even point. I guess I’m going to have to get used to that. But more than once, I’m smiled at, and one old woman even pushes aside Carver and Kev to pull me into an awkward, fumbling embrace. I’m so surprised I nearly burst out laughing, but I return the hug, and she squeezes me briefly before wandering off.
“What’s happening in Apex?” I ask Carver.
He shrugs. “The council’s finished. Okwembu was the only survivor, and she’s in lockdown. There are some people running things, I hear. Techs mostly – nobody making any big decisions or anything, just guys keeping an eye on the main systems. I was expecting some of the gangs to try and step in, but there’s been nothing.”
“What’s going to happen now?”
“Nobody knows. I’m kind of hoping it stays like it is for a while. I can’t describe it, Ry, but I’ve never felt the station like this. It’s almost …” he searches for the right word: “Peaceful.”
“Yeah,” says Kev, speaking for the first time in a while. “No fighting. It’s weird.”
Someone behind me barks my name, and I smile when I see who it is. Royo, limping up the corridor towards us. He’s as beaten up as Apogee itself, a mess of bruises and bandages. One covers his right eye, and his arm is bound up in some kind of complicated sling. He’s limping too, but still manages to look as if he could throw a punch at any moment.
I’m about to throw my arms around him, but stop just in time. He seems to catch the gesture, though, and smiles. “Nice work, Hale,” he says.
“Thanks. How’re you holding up?”
“Flesh wounds, is all,” he says, the smile still on his face.
The moment passes, and he clears his throat gruffly, all business again. “If you’re going to the gallery, I hear they’re short of hands for shifting soil. She’s excused from duty, but you two” – he points at Carver and Kev – “you’re able-bodied. Get in there.”
Carver rolls his eyes. We turn to leave, but then Royo says, “On second thoughts – give us a minute?”
He’s staring over my shoulder at Carver, who frowns. “She just got out the hospital, man. Leave her be.”
“It’s OK,” I say. “I’ll be right there.”
Royo puts an arm around my shoulders, turning me away from Carver and Kev. It’s an unexpectedly protective gesture.
“You need to be ready,” Royo says.
“Oh yeah? For what?” It’s hard not to laugh at his words, at his overly serious tone. After everything I’ve been through, it’s hard to imagine something I wouldn’t be ready for.
Royo glances over his shoulder at the impatient Carver. “You did the right thing. I wouldn’t have you change any part of it. But—”
“Even the part where you – you know.” I gesture to his wounds.
“Listen to me. That doesn’t matter. I could give you some bullshit about cause and effect, but you’re smart enough to figure that out on your own. It’s just … I’m going to give it to you anyway. You don’t just remove a council leader like Janice Okwembu, and expect things to go right back to normal.”
“I don’t care who takes her place.”
“Forget that. What I’m worried about are the things you won’t see coming. The consequences you can’t plan for, no matter how hard you try.”
“And those are?”
“Stupid question, Hale.”
He lets me go, nodding towards Carver and Kev. “Keep ’em close. They’ll have your back.”
I look right into his eyes. “What about you, Royo? Do you have my back?”
He looks right back at me, and a ghost of a smile darts across his face. “Never stopped.”
We leave Royo behind, and walk into the main gallery. The noise and movement is intense. People carrying huge sacks of soil, hefting the bags between them. Others yelling instructions, telling people to form lines. But even through the chaos, I see Prakesh immediately.
He’s standing with a white-coated tech, looking over a clipboard, his expression serious. The moment I see him, it’s as if the noise in the room drops away.
I don’t know how he senses I’m there. All I know is that one moment he’s looking at the clipboard, and the next he’s staring straight at me. The expression on his face is a mix of relief, of sorrow, and of joy.
I’m running, my body sloughing off the pain like old clothes, my arms pumping, my feet in perfect rhythm, the rush building. Running towards him.
And then we’re in each other’s arms, and we kiss, and the world disappears.
Acknowledgements
Riley has her crew. I have mine.
For scientific advice, I owe huge thanks to Dr Barnaby Osborne (University of New South Wales), Chris Warrick (Culham Centre for Fusion Energy), Professor Marcel Dicke (Wageningen University) and Dr Paul Goulart (Oxford University). Dane Grant and Shabnam Abdool-Haq filled the gaps in my parkour knowledge. A
ny errors are, very obviously, my fault.
To my friends who gave me good advice and better company: Chris Ellis, Dane Taylor, Rayne Taylor, Ida Horwitz and Rob Long. Extra thanks to George Kelly, who gave this book a kick in the backside when it needed it the most, and to Gary Gibson for his comments on an early draft.
My amazing agent, Ed Wilson, went to war for this book and came back bloody but victorious. Thanks, Ed. You’re the man.
My editor, Anna Jackson, is a hero. Her gentle, patient, persistent questions and her connoisseur’s eye for ultraviolence made this story what it is. By now, she knows Outer Earth better than I do. Thanks, Anna.
Thanks, too, to my guys at Orbit Books: Joanna Kramer, Felice Howden, Gemma Conley-Smith, James Long and Clara Diaz. And to Tim Holman, for saying yes. You guys did an insane job. Ditto to Anne Clarke, as well as everybody at Orbit US.
Nick Fawcett did an impeccable job of copy-editing, and Nico Taylor designed a badass cover. Nice one, gentlemen.
To Mom, Dad and Cat – this was definitely Plan B, Paragraph 7, Subsection D. The fact that you don’t care, and love me anyway, means more than I can say. Thank you to all family, close and extended. Especially Claudi, who kept a secret.
And to Nix, who has all my best ideas before I do. I love you, babe.
about the author
Rob Boffard is a South African author who splits his time between London, Vancouver and Johannesburg. He has worked as a journalist for over a decade, and has written articles for publications in more than a dozen countries, including the Guardian and Wired in the UK. Tracer is his first novel.
Find out more about Rob Boffard and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.
interview
What was the inspiration behind Tracer?
I’ve always been obsessed with space, and what it’s like to live up there. I got to thinking about what it would be like if huge numbers of people lived on a giant, self-contained station. Obviously, that’s been done before, but what happens if those people have been there for hundreds of years, without any external contact?
