by Boffard, Rob
A few times a year, you hear stories about gang bosses joining forces, declaring open season on any stomper foolish enough to walk into their territories. It always ends up with plenty dead on both sides – but when it comes to new members, people always seem to be more willing to join up with the gangs. The sector leaders do their best, showing face in the bars and the market and the mess halls, looking for recruits to the stomper corps, but they always have to go back to the council in Apex with bad news.
The stompers walking towards me are dressed in thick grey jumpsuits with the station logo – a stylised ring silhouette – stitched into the top pocket. The noise of their boots is heavy in the cramped space. On their hips rest specially modified pistols: guns with ammunition designed to go through flesh and bone, but not metal. We call them stingers.
I’ve seen the one on the left before – Royo, I think his name is, a bear-like man with dark skin and a shaved head. His partner is just as big, with a shaggy beard. In different circumstances, he’d probably look jovial, but as he locks me in his gaze I see that his right eye is glass, dead and inert in its socket.
Left, right, left, right.
They take in the scene. A blood-splattered floor, and a tracer who looks like she just had a head-on collision with an asteroid. “What’s going on here?” says Royo, but even as the words are out of his mouth I’m bolting past him. His partner makes a grab for me, but I’m too quick, slipping under his arm. “Cargo delivery!” I say over my shoulder.
I’m expecting them to give chase, maybe even draw on me. But they don’t follow, and I heave a sigh of relief. Maybe they figure a beat-up tracer isn’t worth their time. Good news for me. I have a lot of ground to make up. My collarbone seems OK, but my face is throbbing again, and prickly waves of pain are spreading out from where I got punched.
A million thoughts are crowding for attention. Part of me wants to drop the box somewhere and run, pretend that I’d never taken the job. I turn that option down in seconds – I don’t even want to think what will happen if Darnell doesn’t get his eyeball. He’ll probably use one of mine as a replacement. And if he decides to take revenge on the Devil Dancers …
But can I really deliver the cargo? Pretend I never saw the eyeball, walk away, and hope everything goes back to normal? Is that even possible now? Every time someone hands me cargo, or asks me to turn around so they can put it in my pack, I’m going to be thinking about today.
But it’s not a choice. Not really. I have to finish the job. There’s a chance that Darnell will find out that I saw my cargo, but it’s a lot less risky than abandoning the job completely.
Every time the pack jolts, every time the cargo shifts against my back, a fresh wave of horror rolls through me.
I pass the mining facilities Chengshi is known for. Their kilns and machines are silent, and the rooms that hold them spill no light into the corridors. They won’t be up and running again until the next asteroid catcher ship swings into orbit alongside the station. I don’t really like running here; I always seem to come out with streaks of grime on my skin and clothes. I tell myself to keep going, that it can’t be more than a mile to the Gardens border.
There are more slag rooms, dotted here and there with rundown habs, all locked up tight. Several times I have to react quickly to stop myself smashing into people in the corridors. Some lie sprawled on the ground, their possessions arranged in haphazard piles. With no hab units willing to take them, they have to sleep where they can.
I’m struggling to run at full speed after the attack, so I slow back to a jog. As I do so, I turn the corner and nearly collide with a tagger.
He’s painting something onto the wall – I catch a glimpse of it as I dodge past, a slogan. ‘It’s the only way’. The phrase doesn’t make any sense, until I remember where I’ve heard it before. At a demonstration in one of the galleries, where it was being chanted. But what were they protesting about again?
The tagger catches sight of me. “We need to control the birth rate,” he says, his voice on the edge of a shout. “Humans were never meant to keep existing …”
Ah. That was it. Voluntary human extinction.
“Out of the way,” I say, all but hurling the words in his direction as I flash past.
I’ve heard it all before. How we need to stop having children to restore balance to the universe. Voluntary euthanasia. If I let the tagger stop me, he’ll end up telling me all about how Outer Earth shouldn’t even exist, that it was a pissing contest between Earth governments that got too far along to kill. Population overflow, they called it. I know the story like every person on this station.
Of course, a massive nuclear war a few years later didn’t help either.
But that was a long time ago, and I just don’t care that much. I turn around, and flip the tagger a raised middle finger. Then I keep running.
Soon, I’m jogging under the sign that marks the border between Gardens and Chengshi. I look up as I pass underneath it. A long time ago, someone took a spray-can, crossed out the words Sector 2 and drew crude pictures of flowers and trees in green paint around it.
You can cross sector borders on nearly all the levels, but for some reason, I always find myself on this one. Gardens is cleaner than Chengshi – better maintained, with much less graffiti and dust. Most of the sector is given over to the Air Lab and the Food Lab, the places which give Gardens its name. They’re behind a set of enormous airlock doors at the bottom of the gallery. I can see the two guards on duty today: Dumar and Chang. Chang’s new – a couple of weeks ago, he refused me entry, and I had to wait for Prakesh to come out for a break before I could get in – but Dumar’s been working there for years. He’s a stocky guy with dark eyes and a huge, black, knotted beard. He raises a hand as I approach, less a command to stop than a friendly greeting. But I can see his hand resting, as always, on his stinger holster.
“Back again?” he says.
I force a smile. “Good to see you too, Dumar.”
“I swear, one day you’re gonna go in there and grow roots, you visit so often.”
“Hey, I just visit. You work here.”
We’ve been exchanging the same lines for years. He gives a good-natured grunt as he turns to his control panel. Behind him, Chang sniffs. Prakesh once told me that on his first day he attempted to body-search every tech who came through the door.
Dumar eyes my pack. “You doing a delivery?”
I swallow. “That’s right. Up to Mr Darnell.”
He shakes his head. “You want to be careful with that one,” he says. He seems about to go on, but Chang flashes him a dark look, and he falls silent.
Dumar presses a few keys, and the outer airlock door hisses open. I step through. “Have fun,” he says over his shoulder as the door closes behind me. As I wait for the inner door to open, I run a hand through my hair. As usual, it’s greasy, caked with grit, uncomfortably sticky. I try to keep it short, but it doesn’t help all that much.
I can see myself in the reflective metal door. My hair frames a face shiny and gleaming with sweat. I try not to look into the reflection’s dark-grey eyes. Instead, I focus on the body, stretching my arms out to the sides, shaking my legs out. The jacket is bulky, but the body underneath it is lithe and supple, muscles sculpted from endless running and climbing and jumping.
There’s a buzz, then a brief flash of purple light – ultraviolet, designed to zap any surface bacteria. I don’t know why they bother. I’m not even sure it works. The door in front of me hisses open, vanishing into the wall.
You get to the Air Lab by going through the Food Lab. I can dimly see the shapes of the crops through the opaque plastic domes in the hangar: corn, tomato plants, beds of lettuce, beans, all bathed in a soft, green glow from the grower bulbs. There are no main lights in the Food Lab itself; the path ahead is softly lit by the ambient light, and a gentle hum emanates from the large aircon units on the walls. The hangar seems to stretch on for miles, and in the distance I can see the lights of
the lab complex where the techs work to make the crops more efficient, easier to grow.
Beyond the greenhouses is the insect colony: what I’ve heard the lab techs call the buzz box. Tiny beetles and little silkworms can’t make much noise on their own, but get millions of them in one place and the hum they generate can shake your stomach. Still, they taste OK. Especially the fried beetles they do in the market sometimes. Crunchy and salty. Much better than the mess hall stuff.
I turn right, by a greenhouse labelled Soja Japonica, and head down the rows. Before long I’m walking through a door and then the space above is filled with a thick green canopy. The trees are a special breed of oak, enormous, designed to suck in carbon dioxide and pump out as much oxygen as possible. And some of them are old – much older than the techs who work on them. Over the years, their roots have broken free of their metal prisons, pushing up through the floor. I have to step over a couple as I move between the trees.
Unlike the Food Lab, the Air Lab is brightly lit, huge lights beaming down from the ceiling. I stop for a moment under a tree with a thick, gnarled trunk, and tilt my head up, watching the rays of light filter through the branches. The air is cool. Were it not for the fact that the floor under my feet was metal grating, and that I was surrounded by huge pools of algae, nestled between the trees, I could be somewhere on Earth. If the nukes hadn’t turned most of the planet into a burning wasteland before I was born, maybe I would be.
Of course, by then there weren’t many trees left anyway.
The Air Lab is just as big as the cavernous Food Lab – it has to be to provide enough air for the station. I head towards the back, to the control rooms, towering over the trees. It’s tempting to just drop the cargo off at an office somewhere, maybe the storerooms, just to avoid Darnell. No chance. I deliver the cargo right into its recipient’s hands, or I don’t deliver it all.
No matter what’s inside.
I climb the clanking metal stairs, wondering how a place in which I can find someone as good as Prakesh is also home to a person like Darnell. As I reach the top, I spot the usual guard outside. He’s a short man, wiry, with a grim face and a grubby, knee-length coat. He gives a nod when he sees me, and hauls open the door to the main control room – after so many runs, he’s used to me by now.
Stepping through the door, I’m blasted by a wave of heat. The convection fins on the hull keep the station cool – most of the time – but Darnell likes to keep the temperature up. He likes to make visitors uncomfortable.
I can feel the sweat begin to run again, pooling at my waist. I’m dying for water – I burned the last of my pack supply on the final stretch here – but you don’t ask Oren Darnell for a drink.
The control units around the walls hum away quietly, attended to by white-coated techs who have shrunk into their chairs like beetles. In the centre of the room are two large drums of water, sloshing gently – just the sight of them makes my tongue jump, like it’s touched an electric wire. Darnell is seated at the back, deep in conversation with one of his lieutenants.
The air is thick with dry heat. In the background, a clanging starts – from one of the water pipes somewhere else in Gardens, maybe – but it only lasts a moment before the door swings shut behind me, reducing the sound to a muted boom. Right then, Darnell looks up and sees me.
He’s a giant of a man, with thick arms and a chest like the hull of a ship. He dresses well: a tight-fitting black shirt and slim black pants made from a smooth fabric. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I busy myself removing my pack. The straps feel rough and unyielding, my fingers clumsy.
“Riley Hale,” he says. His voice is soft and high-pitched, like a child’s. It sounds strange, coming from someone so enormous. He moves towards me in long, languid strides, and his eyes rove across my body, passing over my battered face. “A pleasure to see you again. I trust you are well?”
I shrug, trying to avoid his gaze. Instead, I reach into my pack, and pull out the box.
Darnell gestures to a tech, who steps forward and takes the box from me, reaching out to grab it before shrinking away, as if I might bite his arm off. I made sure I sealed the box shut before I got here – there’s no evidence that it’s been opened.
The tech hands it to Darnell, who quickly breaks the seal, glancing inside. My stomach churns. Darnell nods, reseals the box, and hands it to the tech, who spirits it away to the back of the room.
I’m still watching the box when I realise that Darnell has taken a step closer. Before I can stop him, he runs a finger delicately across my bruises, around the side of my eye. I have to force myself not to flinch.
“These are fresh,” he says. “Tell me who did this.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, trying to turn away. He doesn’t lift his hand from my face, and the light pressure forces the words out of me. “Just another gang thinking they could jack the cargo.”
“But you fought them off.”
“Of course,” I say, taking a step back. His hand drops from my face. “Cargo this important, it’s—”
“Important?”
I keep my expression as neutral as I can. Inside, I’m screaming at myself. The words just tumbled out of me, knocked loose by his touch, the feeling of his smooth fingers on my skin. Darnell is looking at me, his eyes narrowed.
“Yeah, important,” I say. Amazingly, I manage a casual shrug. “’Cos it’s you, you know. You’re not just a regular client.” The words sound forced even as I say them, but I keep my voice steady.
Darnell doesn’t move. For a good three seconds, he simply stares at me.
Then he smiles. “Well, if you ever decide you’d like some payback, you just let me know. I don’t imagine today was the first time you’ve run into trouble.”
I try not to exhale. It’s all I can do to shrug a second time, like it’s nothing.
Darnell raises his eyebrows in mock alarm. “But I’m being such a terrible host. Something to drink?” He gestures to the water in the drums.
“Thanks,” I say, finally meeting his gaze. “I’m good.”
He chuckles. It’s an odd sound, gravelly and brief, like a bare foot stepping on broken glass. “On the house, Riley. No charge. And look …” He strides over to the drums and draws a handful of liquid to his lips. “It’s clean. Didn’t even spike this one.”
A few drops leak out of his cupped hands, splashing back into the drum. I’m conscious of my tongue, large and dry in my mouth, like a hunk of old resin.
One of Darnell’s men appears at his side with a tin cup, and he fills it and hands it to me. I pause, but only for a moment. The water is cool and sweet, with just a faint hint of the metal in the drum. I’ve raised the cup with both hands, and tilt it to catch every last drop.
I hand back the cup and wipe a hand across my lips. All of a sudden, I want out of there, bad. I nod thanks, taking my pack and turning to leave – job done, cargo delivered, time to go.
Darnell clears his throat behind me. “Riley.”
I look back over my shoulder. He goes on: “You really should think about making our arrangement a little more …” He searches for the right words. “More full-time. I could use your talents.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I like what I do.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you stop. I could use a tracer in-house. Someone who worked exclusively for the Air Lab. For me.”
“You’ve got crews in Gardens. Hire one of them.”
“Them?” That laugh again. His eyes are ice crystals. “No. They don’t know what it means to work for something. But you …”
“Like I said. Not interested.” I step towards the door, but he clears his throat again, and this time the noise freezes me in my tracks.
“I usually only make an offer once, Riley. But I’ll let you think about it. Just let it roll around in that little head of yours. I could give you protection. Imagine: no more black eyes.”
I say nothing. His smile doesn’t change. “You be safe now.”
H
e turns away, striding back to the table, like he’s already forgotten about me. I turn to go, ignoring the eyes of his techs, burning into my back. On the catwalk outside, the guard gives me a lazy mock salute before gently pushing the door shut.
8
Riley
I’m almost at the bottom of the stairs when I collapse.
I don’t know whether it’s the shock catching up with me, or simply the beating I took from the Lieren, but one second I’m taking the last few steps, and the next I’m lying flat on my stomach. The metal flooring is cool against my cheek. It feels good.
Hands on my back, then around my shoulders, lifting me up. Someone is saying my name, and then I’m looking into the face of Prakesh Kumar.
He’s taller than me, his arms strong from digging in the dirt every day, and before I know it he’s sat me on the edge of an algae tank. “Gods, Ry, what the hell happened?”
His hands are already reaching towards my face, but I brush them away. His walnut-dark skin is calloused, flecked with grains of dark soil.
“Thought you were off today,” I say. I have to focus on each word, form them carefully so I don’t slur.
“Cancelled. They needed extra hands. What happened?”
“I’m OK,” I say. “Just had a little problem on the run.”
“A little problem?” He moves his hands up again, and I have to push them away more firmly.
“I said I’m fine,” I mutter.
“You don’t look fine. You don’t even look close to fine.” He folds his arms, eyeing my bruises. On the other techs, the white lab coats look bulky, almost baggy, but Prakesh wears his well, square on his shoulders over a rough cotton shirt.
I keep my voice low, in case anyone is listening. “Ambush. Lieren. They were trying to jack my cargo. Managed to fight them off …” I have to stop as a cough bursts up through my throat, doubling me over.
Prakesh’s hands are on my back, steadying me. “Easy. Easy. Just sit here, OK? I’ll get some water.” I try to push him away again, try to tell him that I already had some from his boss, but this time he pushes back, his hand holding steady between my shoulder blades. “No. You’re hurt. You can take some water. I’ll be right back.”
