by Amie Kaufman
Hearing loss aside, Donnelly sees the spark from the ricochet just fine, ducking automatically as she spins around the corner, flat-out sprinting for cover. Kali’s screaming something I can’t make out over the gunfire, but you don’t need subtitles to get the gist. Donnelly’s got a grip on her pilfered gun, but it takes her three corridors before she manages to grab a fire locker and use it to swing herself around, cracking off three successive rounds. She’s shooting quick, and not used to the kickback—dunno if she’s ever fired a gun before, let alone one this big. Her elbows jar, she winces at the muzzle flash and volume, and the bullets go way wide. But they’re enough to slow Alpha down, give her a second to collect herself. Then she’s off again like a hare.
No sense getting into a shoot-out here. She’s outmanned and outgunned, and worse, she forgot to take Nightingale’s ammo. Which means she only has six bullets left.
She makes straight for the elevators, using up her remaining rounds popping a wall-mounted fire extinguisher to give her the lead she needs. She’s fit, but exertion and sheer terror have her chest heaving as she tears down the hallway. She gasps a verbal command to the elevators, but all six remain stubbornly closed. Sliding to a stop in front of them, she slaps at the button to summon one, then slaps again, pleading, desperation in every line of her body.
But BeiTech’s Tracy “Mantis” Lê shut down the elevators after Hanna’s previous escape. There’s a car on this floor, but without a BeiTech security pass, those doors aren’t opening.
Donnelly has run into a dead end. With a focus born of fear, she turns to study the hallway, searching for shelter, a way out, anything that might help. No hatches above her. No exits. She tries digging her fingers between the elevator doors, but she can’t get a grip.
Whimpering now, she rips open the maintenance panel, grabbing the lever marked MANUAL OPEN. Made for shutdown situations, it’s linked in locally—Mantis couldn’t take it offline without paying a personal visit.
The doors slide open, and in an instant Donnelly’s inside, jumping up to punch the roof panel out of place with her free hand, blood pulsing through her makeshift bandage once again. As Kali and the rest of Alpha cautiously round the corner, Hanna shoves her pistol down the front of her jumpsuit and leaps up to grab the edge of the overhead hatch, hauling herself up on top of the car. A kick sends the cover back into place, and she jams the gun between the lip and a support beam to prevent anyone climbing up after her.
Kali’s breathing hard, eyes wild as she jumps up to follow Donnelly’s example, punching at the panel—but the jammed pistol means it’s not going anywhere.
“Get down here, you little ****!”
Lifting her rifle, she fires up through the hatch, the burst punching three holes right by Donnelly’s foot. Hanna silently presses back against the shaft wall, and the next shot sends a line of light shining up from the place she stood an instant before. The footage is grainy—these are only low-grade security cams in the elevator shafts—but she’s visible as she squeezes into a corner, minimizing the target she offers to Russo.
Thirty or forty shots riddle the elevator roof before Russo swipes her security pass across the command plate, bringing it back to life. Ordering two of her squad to the stairwells, she jabs the button for the Hub, closest to Heimdall’s center of rotation. If she can’t shoot Donnelly, she’ll settle for crushing her—space is at a premium on these orbital stations, and their elevators fit flush against the ceiling when they’re at rest. As the car shudders to life and starts to rise, Kali resumes systematically shooting holes in the ceiling, screaming abuse as she works.
Donnelly shies away from each bullet as it flies past, flinching uncontrollably. She looks up at the Hub above, fifteen floors away but rapidly approaching. They’re in a shaft three elevators wide, though the other two cars sit dormant above, waiting for someone with the right pass to unlock them. She dances across to the front of the elevator, hand reaching out to grab at a passing door as they fly past the next level, but there’s no time to get a grip, much less dive through. She flinches away from the next burst of gunfire as Kali shrieks below. Then she unzips her jumpsuit and starts to strip.
She pauses with the jumpsuit at her waist to pull the pack of SimSkin, palmpad and lipstick from her pockets and stuff them into her bra. Then it’s off with the jumpsuit, yanking the legs down over her boots as Russo reloads. She’s down to her underwear now, and since this particular ensemble was clearly intended for the benefit of Jackson Merrick only, I’m doing my best not to notice it, and no, chum, I will not be describing it.
Holding her journal in her teeth, she retrieves her pistol, shoves it into her boot, bundles up the jumpsuit in both hands and in one leap, she’s across to the thick wire cable of the next elevator. With the jumpsuit bunched up to prevent the friction from burning her hands through to the bone, and her knees bent so only the soles of her boots come into contact with the wire, she slides down in a barely controlled descent, picking up speed as the gravity increases toward Heimdall’s extremities. Moments later, she hits the bottom of the well with a thud, and the elevator she left behind is snug up against the roof of the shaft, Kali just realizing there’s nobody up there to get squashed flat.
The fabric of the jumpsuit is burned through to within a couple of layers of Donnelly’s skin, shredded beyond use or recognition, and she drops it, shakes out the pain in her hands and feet and pulls open the service doors to peek outside. As Kali howls her fury up above, Donnelly draws her gun and disappears out into the corridor beyond.
PALMPAD IM: D2D NETWORK
Participants: Hanna Donnelly, Civilian (unregistered)
Ella Malikova, Civilian (unregistered)
Date: 08/15/75
Timestamp: 22:47
Hanna D: anyone out there?
Pauchok: just us terrorists posing as 15 year old girls
Pauchok: wait did I say that out loud, oh foiled
Hanna D: okay, you’re definitely related to Nik.
Pauchok: u got the palmpad back
Pauchok: *slow clap*
Hanna D: *small bow*
Hanna D: Do you know who these *******s are, what they want?
Pauchok: they cut me out of the system, blondie. I know one sixth of three tenths of absolutely **** all.
Pauchok: they’re pro. their decker is top tier. they do the shooty-shoot first and don’t ask questions after. But other than that, I don’t even know how many of em there are
Hanna D: I worked out the shooting bit all by myself.
Hanna D: Do you know if our people are okay? My father? Nik? My boyfriend’s holed up on the bridge, he told me before my whisperNET went down. Maybe he can help.
Pauchok: u don’t know
Hanna D: Ella?
Pauchok: jesus, you don’t, do you?
Hanna D: ella you want to spit it out? I’m hiding and bleeding and blind here, I don’t have time for riddles
Pauchok: um ok.
Pauchok: so look I know your first instinct is going to be to smash the **** out of something when I tell you this. but DO NOT smash the palmpad
Pauchok: your dad’s dead
Pauchok: those ****ers X-ed him out
Hanna D: I…
Pauchok: I’m real sorry
Pauchok: u still there?
Hanna D: I need a minute
Pauchok: um, hello?
Pauchok: u still with us?
Pauchok: Donnelly?
Hanna D: are you sure
Pauchok: pretty sure yeah
Pauchok: hello?
Hanna D: do you know if they’ve taken the bridge
Pauchok: no. they’ve blinded me. I’m cut out of the network
Pauchok: and listen I know this feels like **** and I know u don’t wanna hear it
Pauchok: but right now, ur the only chance I have of getting back in
Hanna D: …
Hanna D: and if you get in
Hanna D: we can find out how many survivors there are?
Pauchok: you get me back in, I’ll b able 2 tell you what brand of undies these goons wear
Pauchok: presuming they’re wearing undies of course
Pauchok: i hear swinging it commando style is all the rage among interstellar murder squads atm
Hanna D: I just need a minute. I’m sorry. I just
Pauchok: i get it.
Pauchok: And i’m sorry too, but u really only got 1 min here
Hanna D: Okay.
Hanna D: I got one of their headsets. Will that help?
Pauchok: unless you know the freqs they’re transmitting on, it’s as useful as a master’s degree in philosophy
Hanna D: So right now there’s no way to find out what’s happening on the bridge?
Pauchok: you do know what “blind” means, ya?
Hanna D: What about Nik? He has a palmpad too, right? That’s why he gave me this one?
Pauchok: presuming he ever looks at it, ya
Pauchok: but he’s locked in the docks. The work I need doing is in Alpha
Pauchok: so if u fancy evening up the scorecard, I’m figuring those four goons I flushed out the airlock ain’t even the start
Hanna D: That was you?
Pauchok: my finger slipped
Pauchok: honest
Hanna D: They’re blaming me for that.
Pauchok: :P
Hanna D: You know what? **** it. They may as well stay on my tail for it. The bigger a surprise you are, the better.
Pauchok: double true
Hanna D: Ok
Hanna D: Tell me what you need me to do.
“Alert all stations. Alert all stations. Fire detected in Administration Section, Level 19, Alpha Sector. All fire wardens report to Oooh, ah, yeah, I wanna lick ya lollipop. Oooh, ah, yeah, I wanna lick ya lollipop. Boy, you got the sweetest lips this girl has ever tasted, boy, I need some sugar on me…”
RADIO TRANSMISSION: BEITECH AUDIT TEAM—SECURE CHANNEL 389
PARTICIPANTS:
Travis “Cerberus” Falk, Lieutenant, Team Commander
Kira “Ghost” Mazur, Sergeant, Charlie Squad—Leader
DATE: 08/15/75
TIMESTAMP: 23:19
CERBERUS: Ghost, this is Cerberus, report status.
GHOST: Cerberus, Ghost. Charlie Squad operational strength still at 50 percent. Link’s coming to, Mona Lisa has probable concussion and Nightingale should be here to take care of it by now. Did she stop for a picnic or something?
CERBERUS: I’m truly grieved to hear of your troubles, Ghost. Nightingale has been delayed. Meantime, would it be inconvenient to assist with a little of the work we’re being paid so handsomely to perform?
GHOST: No, sir.
GHOST: Apologies, sir.
CERBERUS: Bliss. I believe we have a bead on Miss Donnelly.
GHOST: Cricket and I are good to go right now.
CERBERUS: A fire alarm has just been activated in the administrative levels in Alpha Sector. We assume Miss Donnelly would like us to evacuate the area, and I’m interested to know what she plans on doing while we’re gone.
CERBERUS: Take Cricket, and go find out what she doesn’t want us to see. If you can bring her in alive, so much the better. She’s beginning to interest me.
GHOST: Is it actually on fire in there, Cerberus?
CERBERUS: Here’s a thought—why don’t you be a dear and go find out?
CERBERUS: Assault Fleet Kennedy arrives in nineteen hours, Ghost. The clock is ticking.
Ghost and Cricket, the two currently healthy members of Charlie Squad, proceed with caution into the administrative levels of Alpha Sector. Red lights are flashing a coded alarm, illuminating the corridors in quick, bloody flashes, and the shrieking of a siren overhead is interspersed with the sound of Lexi Blue’s new single on constant repeat.
Kali and the rest of Alpha Squad are prowling along Corridor A12b, having beaten Charlie to the location. Kali’s still wearing her headset, listening in on Falk’s orders, but she’s not responding to hails. Apparently she’s got revenge on her mind, and it’s really annoying when people try to talk at you while you’re feeling murderish.
On Falk’s command, Mantis seals off the admin block, trapping whoever’s inside right where they are. Then she jumps on comms.
Mantis: Charlie Squad, looks to me like you’re in the admin sector.
Ghost: Our tracker beacons give it away, Mantis?
Mantis: No need to be snippy.
Mantis: You want some help or not?
Ghost: Depends. Are you being helpful yet?
Mantis: I’ve got activity off Corridor A12e. Someone’s trying to log in to the personnel systems there. Twenty-three failed attempts so far and counting.
Ghost: Guess we found something she’s bad at. Proceeding now, Mantis, please advise Cerberus.
Mantis: Good hunting.
Ghost and Cricket make their way toward Corridor A12e in silence, though the sound of their footsteps would be masked by the pop song blaring all around them in any event.
They round the corner at the same time that Kali and the rest of Alpha Squad appear at the other end of the hallway—all six snap their weapons up, then jerk them higher to remove the target from their teammates. Ghost and Cricket trot up the corridor to join Kali. Though their conversation is inaudible over the pop music, the body language kinda speaks for itself. Allow me to take a stab:
Ghost: What the ever-living **** are you guys doing here?
Kali: This is a big gun and I am very, very angry.
Cricket: She certainly looks very angry.
Ghost: The bossman is looking for you. Why you no call no more?
Kali: Let’s stop arguing and get in there and shoot a million holes in the little *****.
Ghost: Okay, that’s something we can all agree on.
They turn as one, Ghost taking point over Kali’s scowl, and creep toward the doorway to the personnel systems office.
Twenty-seven failed log-in attempts.
Twenty-eight failed log-in attempts.
Charlie and Alpha Squads approach the terminal from both directions, watching each other as they creep along behind banks of desks. Kali lifts a hand to signal countdown, and though that’s Ghost’s prerogative, she chooses not to screw with the other woman today. Smart, imo.
Kali’s fingers flick down one by one.
Three. Two. One.
They rise, six burst rifles trained on the security station, six operatives ready to shoot.
The drinking bird bobs its head, stylus stabbing at the ENTER key for another failed log-in attempt. As it flashes its butt at Kali and Co., we can see that its tail end is adorned with a jaunty smiley face scrawled in red lipstick—not Donnelly’s best work, tbh, given the portfolio we’ve seen so far.
Kali roars, audible even over the music, and pulls the trigger. Poor Drinking Bird, his stylus, his keyboard, his terminal and his smiley hindparts are all reduced to shrapnel as she empties an entire clip into the place where Romeo’s killer is supposed to be.
Several floors away in the server section, a vent in the kitchenette ceiling starts to wobble.
Footage for this entire journal is a shot of Ella Malikova speaking directly to the camera.
Ella’s fifteen, but she looks younger. Long black hair, sharp bangs. You can see a resemblance to her cousin Nik in the cheekbones and razorblade eyes, but that’s where it stops.
Kid must weigh thirty kilos. The lysergia plague took the rest when she was thirteen. The chair she’s strapped into looks even scarier than the computer she’s sitting at. Wetware ’trodes at her temples. Breather pumping a medicated mix of O2 over her mouth. Say what you want about Handsome Mike Malikov—he loved his baby girl enough to spend a fortune on that rig. Enough to keep her kicking after lysergia dragged her as close to death’s door as most folks ever get.
“Kicking” is the wrong word, I guess. Her legs are covered by a temp-regulated blanket, but you can see they’re not much more than skin and bones. No e
vidence of muscular atrophy from the waist up, though. Her fingers dance on three smartglass keyboards like a concert pianist’s the whole time she’s talking.
She named her computer Anansi, which, for the uninitiated, was an old Terran spider god. Web. Spider god. Get it? Anyway, the machine is a beast and looks the part. The Little Spider used to make these vid journals for her best friend, Zoe, who traveled off-station a lot. Just don’t be offended when she says something rude. She grew up in a den of *******s, thugs and murderers, so rude is where she lives.
Journal begins:
“Hey, Zo, monster hugs, big kiss for my best Miss. Mwah. Mwah.
“So listen, I dunno if I’ll even be alive to send this, but in the highly probable event your home is a smoking debris field orbiting a collapsed hole in spacetime when you get back to it, there’s some stuff I need to get off my ****s, such as they are:
“First up, it was indeed me who told Dylan Anderson that your ladyparts were all mad fizzy for him. I knowwww you told me not to, but watching your ovaries go straight nuclear every time his name came up was getting uncomfortable for both of us. Sorry he turned out to be such a ****, but it could’ve been a beautiful thing. Mmmmyeah.
“Confession, the second: Mr. Biggles is not Mr. Biggles. The real Mr. Biggles died the last time you went back to Ares. I knowwwwwwwwww you asked me to feed him, and I did…but I think I fed him too much. Anyway, you didn’t even notice I swapped in a new fish and jeeeeesus if you knew what I had to pay for one that looked exactly like Biggles the First and get it out here, you’d know how much I luff you.
“But…double big sadface, love heart love heart, hugs?
“Soooo now, with my deadly sins confessed, the sitch:
“Heimdall’s been taken over by some type A ****holes. Terrorists or neo-fascists or pirates. Dunno. But they’re geared to the gills and happy on the trigger, and I’m gonna see every one of ’em breathing vacuum before I cash in. Hence the aforementioned potential for all your **** to get blown up. So…if things go boom, sorry in advance about your signed Artie Corso stuff and Mr. Biggles II.