by Jack Heath
People milled around like ants in a hive. Some were clambering behind the big rotating guns on the edges of the deck. Some were thumping buttons as extra lifeboats rose out of giant hatches in the floor. Some were still pulling their clothes on. Six pulled out his phone.
‘Kyntak, what’s the ETA on the chopper?’
‘Nearly there, Six,’ Kyntak said. ‘Three minutes.’
‘Be careful,’ Six said. ‘They –’
Boom. He ducked instinctively. It sounded like a distant explosion, like a shell from a tank gun hitting a building. But since there were no tanks or buildings nearby, Six couldn’t explain it at first.
Boom! There it was again. Louder, closer. The flurry of activity on the deck stuttered to a halt as the personnel on the Gomorrah noticed the sound and started looking for the source.
Heads turned to the sky in confusion as a third boom pounded from it.
Thunder, Six thought.
There was a thin crackling sound from below. Six looked at his feet, and saw a tiny yellowish blob of moisture on the deck. It bubbled and crackled and steamed, and then it was gone, leaving a small crater in the metal.
Another blob appeared to Six’s left. Then another.
Crackle. Hiss.
‘Rain!’ someone shouted.
And then the commotion on the deck became full-blown panic.
Rain wasn’t what it used to be. Six had read that rain had once been civilisation’s primary source of fresh water. People left storage tanks outside to collect it, governments built dams to regulate it. Long periods without rain put ecological and economic strain on countries.
Not anymore. ChaoSonic supplied water to the City by siphoning it out of the ocean, boiling it, centrifuging it and injecting additives to remove the minerals and neutralise the pollutants, and then they distributed it all over the continent through a maze of giant underground pipes. How well purified your water was depended on how much you were willing to pay for it. Used water, garbage water, soiled water was pushed out through the sewers and dumped back into the ocean.
Water too impure to be classified as drinkable was regularly sprayed from various towers in short bursts, spattering the surrounding streets to cleanse them of oil and grime. People called it rain, although they knew it wasn’t.
But real rain still happened, sometimes. If you got far enough away from the City, there was still enough sunshine to gradually evaporate the seawater. The vapour would rise, and become clouds. Some of the hazardous chemicals were shed in this transformation. Some weren’t. And then the clouds would crystallise, and dump the rain straight back down.
The trouble was, every once in a while wind blew the clouds back towards the City before they burst. Then the tainted water vapour bonded with the fog – the nitrogen oxides and sulfur oxides pumped into the air by the cars and power stations and factories of the City. And the rain, when it came down, wasn’t water anymore.
Polluted water plus polluted air equals acid rain. Rain that eroded steel, burned the air, and ate the flesh off your bones if you went outside.
If it landed in the ocean, the chemicals rebonded and the seawater neutralised the acid. But sometimes it didn’t, and cars dissolved. Boats sank. People died.
The CNS Gomorrah was less than 10 kilometres from the Seawall. It was well and truly smothered in the carbon veil that stained the City. And while the hull was thick and strong enough to withstand a brief rainstorm, anyone who stayed out on the deck would be burned alive. Transformed into a bubbling pile of slop.
Shouts of alarm rang out through the air, coming from all directions, meshing together into a single panicked roar. Some of the soldiers made it to the cover of the bridge. Others clambered down into the many hatches gridded across the deck – before the soldiers on the other side sealed them shut, desperate to keep the acid out. A few grabbed life rafts, turning them upside down and cowering underneath.
Dozens didn’t make it.
What can I do? Six thought, eyes wide. How can I help them? But it was way too late. He gritted his teeth as his ears were filled with the wretched screams of those still stranded in the open. The faint stench of sizzling fat and muscle made him gag.
‘Kyntak,’ he gasped, holding up his phone. ‘We’ve got rain.’
Kyntak swore. ‘Are you under cover?’
‘Yes. But lots aren’t. I count …’ Six winced as he scanned the deck. ‘I count at least twenty casualties.’
‘We’re coming to get you, Six. ETA, two minutes.’
Too late for these guys, Six thought, staring at the charred remains on the deck. I killed them. It’s my fault they’re up here. If I hadn’t showed up, raised the alarm and planted the bomb, no-one would have been evacuating. I tried to save them from drowning, and instead I burned them to death. Some hero I turned out to be.
Six scanned the hangar for something to cover himself with. He didn’t know how close to the door the helicopter would be able to land, but there was a chance he’d have to run a few metres through the rain, and he couldn’t do that without some protection.
Instinct turned him back to the doorway. He’d seen something in his peripheral vision; something that required his attention.
Bodies. Lifeboats. Acid-scarred metal. No immediate threats.
Then he looked at the bridge. Behind the windows, there was a soldier staring at him through a pair of binoculars.
Six inhaled sharply and ducked out of sight behind the doorway. Had the soldier been looking at him? And if so, had he noticed that the clothes under Six’s stolen coat were clearly not ChaoSonic issue?
Six waited ten more seconds, then peeped around the doorway. He snapped back instantly. The soldier was shouting into his radio, two more were looking through binoculars, and several others were picking up guns. They had seen him – and they were doing something about it.
Goddamn it, Six thought. Kyntak better be here soon.
He heard a growing roar from the hole he’d come up through. Gruff shouts, stomping boots. The soldiers were coming for him.
Six ran over and slammed the hatch shut. There was no way to lock it, so he wrenched a pipe off the wall and jammed it between the valve and the wall. That should hold them for a while – the hatch was barely a metre wide, so only one soldier could push at a time, and gravity was against them. With a bit of luck, Six would be gone by the time they broke through the pipe.
Six popped his head out the door again. The rain was still thundering down, but he could see the helicopter on the horizon, racing towards the ship. Acid sprayed outwards from the whirling rotors, flung away before it had time to eat the blades.
It was ninety seconds away, maybe eighty.
A crackling sound erupted behind him. Thinking the acid had breached the ceiling of the hangar, he dived for the wall. But as he looked back, he saw that it was worse. Light blazed around the hinges of the hatch. Someone was cutting through from the other side.
Six’s heart thudded in his ears. It would take less than twenty seconds for them to break through. He turned back to the doorway. The helicopter was coming, but not fast enough. It was still at least a minute away.
For a crazy second he wondered if the heavy-pressure diving suits on the rack would be thick enough to protect him from the rain. He grabbed one and felt the rough material. No. The acid would eat through it in five seconds, then he’d have maybe another ten before he was dead from the burns.
Six gritted his teeth. He had three options. One: stay where he was and get shot to bits by the soldiers. Two: run outside and get eaten alive by the acid rain.
Three: surrender.
Thunder boomed overhead. The first hinge broke off the hatch with a grimy clank. One more to go.
If Six surrendered, he would never see daylight again. Assuming he survived the detonation of the SOL-bomb, he would be tortured, so ChaoSonic could learn more about the Deck. Then he would be experimented on, so they could get more data about Project Falcon. Then he would be executed, or sold to
the highest bidder, one organ at a time.
The Deck would be overrun. ChaoSonic would have complete control. The City would fall apart.
But what choice did he have? Dead later was better than dead now. A little hope was better than none.
He raised his phone. ‘Kyntak,’ he said.
‘Nearly there, Six,’ Kyntak said. ‘Forty seconds.’
‘No, I –’ Six broke off.
What could he say? Turn back? I give up, nice knowing you?
There was another way out of this. It was dangerous – perhaps even insane – but better than surrendering.
‘Change course,’ Six told Kyntak. He pulled the diving suit onto his legs. ‘Line up the chopper so you’re approaching from the bow of the ship. Perfectly in line with the front, got it?’
‘Got it,’ Kyntak said. ‘I have no idea what you’re doing, but good luck.’
Six put his arms through the sleeves and pulled the helmet over his head. He grabbed the Parrot from his belt before he zipped up the sides.
Okay. Ready to go.
Clank. The other hinge snapped off. Instantly the hatch was shoved half-open. A grenade flew through the gap, and bounced onto the floor of the hangar.
Six almost laughed. Surrender hadn’t been an option anyway.
He dashed through the doorway, out into the storm, and headed for the runway.
The suit was heavy. Running in it was like wading through a shallow swimming pool. Six could hear a snap, snap as blobs of acid smacked against the helmet. His breaths were fast and shallow.
He wouldn’t be able to run all the way to the bow of the ship, jump into the water, and swim out to the approaching helicopter. Not in the fifteen seconds it would take for the acid rain to reach his bones and shred them.
But the CNS Gomorrah was no ordinary ship – it was an aircraft carrier.
Most fighter jets couldn’t get enough speed to take off from such a short runway. That was why a horizontal rail ran along the centre of the runway, with a metal hook at one end. The wheels of the jet would be attached to the hook, and then an operator on the bridge would push a button, unleashing a burst of pressurised gas underneath the runway. The gas would hit the base of the hook with hundreds of tonnes of force. The hook would shoot along the rail, shoving the jet forwards at supersonic speeds, and firing it off the bow of the ship.
Six didn’t have a fighter jet. But he didn’t need to take off. He just needed to be hurled far enough to reach the helicopter.
Boom. The floor of the ship hummed as the grenade detonated inside the hangar. There was no turning back now. In moments the soldiers would be pouring in through the hatch.
Six pressed one foot against the top of the hook and stared down into the narrow gap between the rail and the deck. He could see the outline of the gas tank.
Splat. Hiss. The acid was burning through Six’s suit.
He pointed the Parrot at the lid of the tank and squeezed the trigger.
Clink. No good. He took aim again. Fired.
The g-force crushed his chest as he whooshed forwards. The runway rushed past, speed blurring it into a kaleidoscope of greys. He struggled to keep his foot balanced on the hook – the pressure was driving the tip through the sole of the diving boot. His other boot clattered against the runway, sending explosions of sparks into the distance behind him.
Specks of rain flew at the visor of his helmet, bursting against the glass. Pungent fumes started to leak in through the holes. Six tried to keep his head down.
The bow of the ship thundered towards him. The helicopter was flying too high – he was going to have to jump.
He zipped towards the end of the runway at a speed the human body was never supposed to withstand. A fleck of acid burned through the suit and snapped onto his bicep, and he gasped as it seared his skin. Looking down, he could see that the toes of the diving boots had already been eaten away, and the rain was fast dissolving the shoes inside.
He was nearly at the end. One-two-three jump …
There was a clang as the hook slammed into the end of the runway behind him, but he was already in the air. Sudden silence. The ocean swept by below him. The suit was weightless. He stretched out his arms ahead of him, reaching for the landing skis of the helicopter. His arm stung as the acid punctured his skin. Another drop penetrated the suit and landed on his back, and he bit his lip to stifle a scream. If the acid stayed there long, it could dig right through the muscle and rupture his lung.
Don’t think about it! he told himself. Get to the chopper. Where’s the chopper?
He could hear the blades as they shattered the air. He looked around wildly. His visor was bubbling. He could see a vague outline of something – what was it? The helicopter, a cloud –
Thud. His chest smacked into the landing ski, and all the breath exploded out of him. He scrabbled desperately at the metal, cooked gloves struggling for purchase, slipping back, and then he was plunging back into the void towards the ocean –
A hand grabbed his forearm and dragged him back up. He felt his knees bounce across the floor of the helicopter and then someone ripped his helmet off his head.
‘Get the seawater!’ someone shouted.
A face floated into view. It was Kyntak.
‘Get it off me!’ Six yelled. ‘There’s rain on my back, and my arm – get this suit off me!’
A knife ripped through the heavy folds of the diving suit, and then it was torn off and thrown out the cargo door. Six was rolled over, and a jar of seawater was poured onto his back. He screamed as it trickled into the open wound.
‘Just another day on the job, huh?’ Kyntak shouted.
His laugh sounded forced. Looking over, Six saw that the skin on Kyntak’s hand was rotting away. He must have been the one who grabbed Six’s arm, and now there was acid on his fingers.
The cold seawater was like the tip of a sword buried in Six’s back.
‘You’re going into shock,’ Kyntak yelled. ‘We’re going to knock you out.’
A needle thudded into Six’s neck, and his muscles relaxed as the anaesthetic seeped through his circulatory system.
‘Did you get the SARS?’ someone shouted.
‘No,’ Six tried to say. Then the world went dark.
ANALYSIS
Six woke suddenly. He gasped. Choked. His torso shuddered upwards.
‘Easy, Six,’ Ace of Diamonds said. She put her hands on his shoulders, holding him down. ‘Deep breaths. You’re safe.’
‘Where am I?’ he coughed. The bright lights hurt his eyes. Something hard and cold was underneath him. His heart rate gradually slowed.
‘You’re back at the Deck,’ she said. ‘In the basement. You’ve been out for two hours. How do you feel?’
Six grimaced. He was sore all over. ‘My back hurts.’
‘I’m not surprised – there’s a hole in it.’
‘Right.’ He shut his eyes again.
‘Sorry about the slab,’ Ace said. ‘I would have found you a bed, but I didn’t want any fibres to get into your wounds. Kyntak thought you might have hit your head in the helicopter, and if there’s brain damage, I have to deal with that before I treat your physical injuries.’
‘Is Kyntak okay? His hand …’
‘He’s fine,’ Ace said. ‘He neutralised the burn with seawater right after pouring it on you.’
Six stretched out his arms and legs, lifting them slightly off the slab. The thin cotton sheet draped over him shifted against his skin.
He blinked. ‘Am I naked?’
‘Sorry. I had to check there were no other flecks of acid on you, or they could tunnel right through your bones while I was treating the major wounds. But you’re clean.’
Ace wasn’t the only medical specialist at the Deck, but she was the only one who treated Six these days. She was just nineteen, but she was very capable, and he liked it how she didn’t act as if he was a superhero, or a freak – she treated him just as a patient. Maybe it was because she’d seen hi
m unconscious and wounded and defenceless, seen his blood and his insides. She had seen that underneath his skin, behind his abilities and his past, he wasn’t that different from everyone else.
She held up a clipboard. ‘I’m going to ask some questions to check your mind hasn’t been impaired. Okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘Can you tell me your name?’
‘Agent Six of Hearts.’
‘Not your job title, your name.’
‘It’s the only name I have,’ Six said.
‘Really?’ Ace raised her eyebrows. ‘I never knew that about you.’
‘Then how would you have known if I was wrong?’
She seemed to take that as rhetorical. ‘What did King call you when he was raising you?’
Six shrugged. ‘It’s not like he ever introduced me to his friends.’
Ace scribbled on the clipboard. ‘Date of birth?’
‘I was never born.’
She sighed. ‘Just tell me your age.’
‘Almost seventeen,’ Six said. ‘If you start from when I first escaped from the Lab.’
‘This test really isn’t designed for people like you.’
‘There aren’t many people like me,’ Six said.
‘True. Where are we right now?’
‘The basement of the Deck,’ he replied. ‘You just said that.’
‘Was I telling the truth?’
Six looked around. White tiles, grey morgue drawers. Ace was in her lab coat, her blonde hair tied back under a white scarf. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Good. What’s my title?’ she asked.
‘Ace of Diamonds.’
‘How long have I worked here? Be as exact as you can.’
‘Ten months, one week, five days. The hours and minutes would depend on what time it is.’
‘Long-term memory’s fine,’ Ace said. ‘What was your last mission?’
‘Infiltrate the CNS Gomorrah, steal the payload, exfiltrate undetected.’
‘A minute ago, when you said your back hurt, what did I say?’
‘“I’m not surprised, there’s a hole in it.”’
