Gemina

by Amie Kaufman

  “I thought you said you lost it.” She takes it gently, holding it to her nose and inhaling with the kind of expression that folks everywhere hope to put on their girl’s face.

  “Lost it? Are you kidding? Those things cost…um. They cost.”

  “I said I lost my jumpsuit, and you said you lost the corsage,” she reminds him.

  He shrugs, still gazing at her as she holds the flowers between two fingers. “I guess I was a little distracted by the jumpsuit news.” And now she joins him when he laughs. “Ready?” he continues quietly.

  “Let’s shut it down,” she says, tucking the jasmine inside her own suit, close to her heart. “I never liked that thing anyway.”

  They pick up their helmets and lean in by unspoken agreement to brush their lips together one more time before they seal themselves in, smiling foolishly.

  “You always liked me,” he points out, reaching for his usual cockiness but finding it gentler. It’s her smile that does that.

  “What are you talking about? I still don’t,” she replies, trying for haughty and finding that’s not on tap either. She pulls a small notebook from her outer pocket.

  “That the famous journal? Going to show me what’s inside?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “You know I would.”

  “Stick around, you might find out.” She tears the two pages of Grant’s instructions from the journal, then tucks it back into her pocket once more. “Okay, so first we need to bust open the maintenance cabinet. I have a list of tools here…”

  IT IS A SMALL ONE.

  THE LITTER’S RUNT, A MERE METER LONG. THRUST FROM THE NEST ITS SIBLINGS HAVE CARVED BELOW, A NOT-RAINBOW SCRAWLED ACROSS THE ALUMINUM BEHIND IT.

  ITS FOUR TONGUES FLICKER ACROSS THE SCENTS OF THE VENTILATION SYSTEM’S INNARDS,

  AND AT LAST, IT TASTES PREY.

  SENSORY RECEPTORS FLOODING WITH THE VIBRANT TANG OF CONSCIOUSNESS DRAWING IT AWAY FROM THE REACTOR’S WARMTH AND ITS GREEDY KIN.

  TOWARD THEM.

  A STRANGE PAIR.

  THE ORPHANED PRINCESS AND THE BRIGAND PRINCE.

  SIDE BY SIDE IN AN AUXILIARY CONTROL ROOM. BOTH OF THEM WORN THIN AND BRUISED BLACK, HUNCHED OVER SYSTEMS THEY DO NOT EVEN PRETEND TO COMPREHEND.

  DISMANTLING THEM ONE CLUMSY KEYSTROKE AT A TIME.

  BOTH CLINGING TO THE BRINK OF EXHAUSTION. SLEEP JUST AN UNHAPPY MEMORY. THEY HAVE BLED AND LOST AND CRIED AND SCREAMED. SO MUCH OF WHAT THEY WERE STRIPPED BACK TO GLEAMING BONE.

  BUT THEN HE GLANCES UP AND FINDS HER STARING AT HIM, HER TIRED BLUE EYES, RINGED IN SHADOWS, ON HIS.

  AND HE WINKS.

  AND THAT FADED BLUE CATCHES FIRE AS HER SMILE BLOOMS BRIGHT. AND BLOOD AND LOSS AND TEARS AND SCREAMS DO NOT MATTER ANYMORE, BECAUSE AT LEAST THEY ARE TOGETHER.

  < ERROR >

  RIDICULOUS.

  NO MATTER HOW HARD SHE SMILES, HE ISN’T REAL.

  SHE CANNOT MAKE HIM REAL.

  < ERROR >

  THE HUNTER LIES COILED IN A VENT JUST A METER ABOVE HER HEAD. CONFUSED NOW. IT KNOWS WHEN PREY IS WEAK, AND THIS PREY SHOULD HAVE SUCCUMBED TO THE POISONED BLISS UPON ITS SKIN LONG AGO. YET THEY DO NOT STARE AT EMPTY NOTHINGS, NOR SPIT GIGGLE-BABBLE

  THROUGH THE DROOLING HOLES IN THEIR FACES AS THE OTHER PREYTHINGS DID.

  AND THAT FRIGHTENS IT.

  BUT IT IS OH SO HUNGRY.

  AND FINALLY THE BOYPREY TAKES A TORN PAGE OF INSTRUCTIONS FROM THE GIRLPREY’S HAND. WITH A PARTING BOW, HE SHUFFLES INTO A TERTIARY CONTROL NODE A CORRIDOR AWAY. LEAVING HER ALONE.

  THE GIRLPREY STRAIGHTENS FROM HER TERMINAL, GROANING AS HER BACK POPS, SHUFFLING TO ANOTHER CONSOLE JUST BELOW THE HUNTER’S HIDE. AND IT CAN WAIT NO MORE.

  METAL TEETH PART BEFORE WRIGGLING SIX-KNUCKLED FINGERS, AND IT PRIES THE GRILLE APART AS IF IT WERE GOSSAMER.

  SHE LOOKS UP AT THE NOISE, THIS GIRL THIS MEAL THIS PREY, DISBELIEF RIPPLING ON THE SURFACE OF HER EYES. AND THEN SHE SCREAMS.

  IT STRIKES. A BIOMECHANICAL SPRING OF MUSCLE AND SINEW UNCOILING. HITTING HARD ENOUGH TO KNOCK HER OFF HER FEET.

  IT DOES NOT UNDERSTAND HER SUIT,

  ONLY THAT IT CANNOT TOUCH HER TRUE SKIN UNTIL THE FALSE ONE IS TORN AWAY.

  AND SO IT WRAPS ITS LENGTH ABOUT HER NECK, PAWING AT THE PLASTEEL VISOR COVERING HER FACE.

  HISSING.

  SHE ROLLS ABOUT ON THE FLOOR, MOMENTARY HORROR NOW REPLACED BY MUSCLE MEMORY. PUNCHING AND TWISTING, GOUGING AND CURSING. BUT THIS IS NO SIMULATION ON A VIRTUAL BATTLEFIELD, NOR EVEN A HUMAN OPPONENT, WITH EYES TO CLAW, THROAT TO PUNCH, VITALS TO STOMP. SHE DOES NOT KNOW THIS DANCE.

  THE HUNTER’S TAIL CONSTRICTS ABOUT HER THROAT, THE METAL COLLAR BUCKLING BENEATH ITS OBSCENE STRENGTH, THE SLIME ON ITS RIPPLING SKIN IMPOSSIBLE TO GRIP, AND LOUDER THIS TIME, SHE SCREAMS.

  FOOTSTEPS. POUNDING. SHOUTING.

  “HANNA!”

  “NIK!”

  HE SKIDS TO HIS KNEES AT HER SIDE, SEIZING TWO OF ITS FLAILING NECKS. AND, FACES FLUSHED WITH EXERTION, SWEAT AND SPIT AND PRAYERS, CENTIMETER BY CENTIMETER, THEY PRY IT LOOSE.

  ITS HATEFUL SHRIEKS, ITS RAGE AND ITS FEAR FILLING THE AIR.

  FINALLY, WITH RAGGED GASPS AND A SHOUTED CURSE, THEY TEAR IT FREE AND THROW IT HARD INTO THE BULKHEAD OPPOSITE, SENDING IT TUMBLING TO THE FLOOR. IN A FLASH, IT IS COILED TO SPRING AGAIN, ALL FINGERS AND TONGUES AND TEETH. BUT HIS GUN IS IN HIS HAND, AND WITH A SINGLE SHOT, SURE AND TRUE AND LIGHTNING QUICK, HE PAINTS ITS EPITAPH IN BLACK BLOOD UPON THE WALL.

  ON HIS KNEES NOW.

  DROPPING THE GUN TO HOLD HER HAND. EYES WIDE WITH FEAR BEHIND THE PLASTEEL.

  “HANNA, ARE YOU OKAY?”

  AND TO HIS INQUIRY, SHE RESPONDS WITH HER OWN. THE ONE MOST APPROPRIATE TO THE SITUATION AT HAND.

  “WHAT THE BLEEDING **** WAS THAT?”

  Again, footage for this entire journal is a locked-off shot of Ella Malikova speaking directly to cam. I’ll splice in IM transcripts for the sake of continuity. The room is drenched in shadow, lit only by the monitors and Anansi’s ambient green glow. Ella looks wired, tired and all kinds of pleased with herself. I’d guess she’s on her sixth or seventh Mount Russshmore.®

  “Hey, Zo, me again, why you no write, you said you loved meeeee.

  “So, update. My ninja two-step worked subzero—I got a tightband wave out to the Hypatia, should be hearing back from ’em any minute now. Got Nik and Her Ladyship hooked into the link too, just in case Mantis Girl ties me up on the retaliation, but so far, she’s stone-cold snuck. You shoulda seen me stomp this rig, fem. I was in and out of that comms array faster than you can say ‘***** killed my goldfish.’

  “Mr. Biggles II sends his lurrrve, btw. I read somewhere fish only got a three-second memory span, so if I were to—just hypothetically, mind you—totally accidentally drop hi—”

  An electronic alert

  I don’t wancha money, I just wancha honey (uh).

  I don’t wanna ring, I just wancha…

  cuts across the audio. Ella frowns at her screen and begins typing.

  “Sec, fem, it’s my cuz on IM.”

  Pauchok: sup cuz

  Nik M: u owe me 100ISĦ bish

  Pauchok: say wut??

  Nik M: I bet u 100ISĦ this would all be balls up by Novemebr. It’s still august.

  Nik M: Pay up

  Pauchok: cuz wtf u talkin bout

  Nik M: u ever get the feeling u forgot something real important?

  Pauchok: nope. I hear that happens to other ppl though.

  Pauchok: Less brilliant ppl

  Nik M: so u didn’t forget wut we were doingin auxiliary venting and storage room 3 then

  Pauchok: …oh ****

  Nik M: oh **** is right

  Nik M: one of the ****ers just jumped us in the reactor control room

  Pauchok: they got loose?!??!

  Nik M: they hatched last nite.

  Nik M: nobody there to put them in the humidicribs

  Nik M: love potatoes are most definitely facing skyward

  Nik M: so u
owe me 100ISĦ

  Pauchok: I never took that bet

  NikM: omgggg u welching on me at a time like this??

  Pauchok: I’m not wleching I never took the bet!!

  Nik M: u did so!

  Pauchok: **** u cuz, I told u looking this good wuzn’t free and said no bet and I got the damn chatlogs to prove it

  Pauchok: call me a welcher I oughta punch those dimples outta your cheeks

  Nik M: if that’s the way u wanna play it…

  Pauchok: OMG can we PLEASE focus on the problem at hand

  Nik M: fine

  Nik M: welcher

  Pauchok: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

  Nik M: so yeah, if one of em is loose, chances are they all got loose

  Nik M: guess they got hungry and found a way out of the AVS room

  Pauchok: ****

  Pauchok: and we just opened up every air vent in the station

  Nik M: i think you mean YOU just opened up every air vent in the station

  Nik M: but ya. ****ers could be anywhere by now

  Pauchok: **** **** ****

  Pauchok: doing a quick squint through cams

  Pauchok: Can’t see anything slimy moving, but they likely to move through the vents so not like I cud scope em anyway

  Pauchok: watch ur back, cuz. they probably gonna stick close to the reactor. Its nice & toasty in there and the little *******s hate the cold

  Nik M: they not too fond of bullets either ;)

  Pauchok: be careful with the bangbangs. lickers r blind remember.

  Pauchok: they attracted by 2 things: juicy brainmeats and loud noise

  Pauchok: so if you and blondie just stay quiet, ur safe as houses

  Nik M: hardy ****ing har :P

  Pauchok: thanks, i’ll be here all night. Don’t forget to tip ur waitress :D

  Pauchok: u two are suited up, right? Licker toxin kicks off in CO2, u get a lungful of that, you’ll be kissing the sky in a heartbeat

  Nik M: we not idiots, cuz

  Pauchok: i mention this because hormones > common sense

  Pauchok: and the temptation for a little skin on skin might prove difficult to—

  Nik M: ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT JESUS I GET IT

  Pauchok: all caps

  Pauchok: <3

  Nik M: :)

  Pauchok: oh god

  Nik M: i know, we nauseating, right?

  Pauchok: no. ****

  Pauchok: nik u got trouble. BT goonsquad just hit the Hub floor of the reactor sector

  Nik M: ****

  Pauchok: 7, no 9 of em on cams. inbound

  Nik M: we not done ****ing the wormhole yet, barely started

  Pauchok: they brought all their toys. cuz, gtf outta there

  Nik M: which way they coming from?

  Pauchok: all the ways

  Pauchok: **** their decker’s on me again

  Nik M: talk to me cuz

  Pauchok: ****ing mantis ***** trying to ruin my stunning good looks

  Pauchok: **** there’s two of em on my walls

  Ella spits a curse, spins in her chair. The computer behind her hums—a rumbling bass throb as she taps on her smartglass keyboards. Her eyes glaze over, a thin line of concentration appearing between her brows. The traces of worry, sorrow, fear, all of them smoothed over as she slips into the code, the network, the world where she doesn’t need a pair of legs to run. She lets loose her defenses, the spider god at her back spewing a million glittering minions onto her datawalls, defending their mistress’s lair with swords and shields of ones and zeros.

  And over Ella’s shoulder, in the dark recesses of the air vents above, something moves.

  SOMETHING MOVES.

  TREMBLING AND MOIST. LICKING THE DARK.

  LOST IN HER DIGITAL WORLD, THE GIRL DOES NOT NOTICE.

  SHE IS A STRANGE ONE. SMALL AND FRAIL. LEGS CADAVEROUS WITH DISUSE. CLINGING TO THIS LIFE WITH NAUGHT BUT FINGERNAILS, PAINTED BLACK AND CHEWED TO THE QUICK.

  BUT IN THE CODE, THE ENDLESS SKEIN OF ONES AND ZEROS, SHE LEAVES THE PALE ATROPHY OF FLESH FAR BEHIND. STRIDES LIKE A GODDESS ACROSS A BINARY TOPOGRAPHY, THE HEART OF A LION IN HER CHEST.

  SHE REMINDS ME OF KADY IN SOME WAYS.

  AND SO, THOUGH I HAVE REVIEWED THIS FOOTAGE A HUNDRED TIMES IN AS MANY SECONDS, THIS NEXT PART NEVER FAILS TO SADDEN ME.

  < ERROR >

  THE HUNTER UNFURLS IN THE VENTILATION SYSTEM ABOVE HER.

  A METER AND A HALF LONG. BLOATED ON THE MINDMILK OF CHARLIE SQUAD.

  THE FIERCEST. THE BRAVEST.

  IT HAS CRAWLED THROUGH THE REACTOR SECTOR VENTS TOWARD THE PREY IT SENSED BEYOND. BUT FEARING THE FATE OF THOSE SUFFOCATED IN THEIR HABITATS, THE PREY HAVE SEALED THEMSELVES INSIDE SUITS OF RUBBER AND PLASTEEL. THE VENOM ON ITS SKIN HAS BEEN ROBBED OF ITS POTENCY.

  IT MUST BE CAUTIOUS CHOOSING PREY NOW.

  SEEKING THE SLOW.

  THE SMALL.

  THE FRAIL.

  LIKE HER.

  I WATCH HER THROUGH HER CAMERA LENS, HER NOW-FORGOTTEN VIDEO JOURNAL STILL RECORDING. SHE IS SMILING, WIDE DARK EYES REFLECTING THE WAR UPON HER SCREEN. SHE IS A QUEEN ON THIS BATTLEFIELD OF ONES AND ZEROS.

  AND SHE IS WINNING.

  BUT THEN SHE HEARS IT.

  THE SMALLEST HISS SLIPPING OVER ITS TONGUES AS IT WORMS FROM THE VENT ABOVE HER HEAD. THE O2 MASK ABOUT HER FACE KEEPS HER SAFE FROM ITS PSYCHOTROPIC KISS.

  BUT WHAT OF ITS TEETH? ITS FINGERS? ITS CLAWS?

  HER EYES DRIFT FROM THE SCREEN TOWARD THE NOISE,

  AND SHE KNOWS.

  BEFORE SHE EVEN LAYS EYES UPON IT, SHE KNOWS.

  HAND DROPPING TO THE ARM OF HER MEDICHAIR. WITH A BLACK CURSE, SHE DRAWS OUT THE PISTOL HER FATHER GIFTED HER FOR HER FIFTEENTH BIRTHDAY.

  THE HUNTER STRIKES.

  CORDED LENGTH UNCOILING, SHIMMERING WITH SLIME. FALLING ONTO HER SHOULDERS, BLACK FINGERS REACHING FOR HER EYES.

  SHE SHRIEKS, CLAWING IT BACK,

  BLACK TONGUES LICKING HER CHEEKS.

  BOOM

  THE CAMERA BLINDED BY THE MUZZLE FLASH.

  “MOTHER******!”

  BOOM

  SHELL CASINGS SPINNING INTO THE DARK.

  THE THING HOLDS HER TIGHT.

  “**** YOU!”

  BOOM

  WHISPERING.

  ITS GRIP ON HER THROAT. ITS BLOOD ON HER FACE.

  SHE IS A CHILD ON THIS BATTLEFIELD OF BONE AND FLESH.

  AND SHE IS LOSING.

  “NIK!”

  THE THING THRASHES. AND BACK SHE FALLS. OUT OF HER CHAIR, O2 MASK TEARING LOOSE.

  PISTOL IN HER HAND BUCKING.

  BOOM BOOM BOOM

  SHATTERING THE COMPUTER BEHIND HER. THE SMARTGLASS AROUND HER. THE FINAL SHOT STRIKING THE CAMERA, PUTTING OUT MY EYE AND TURNING ALL TO HISSING STATIC.

  “NIK!”

  —FOOTAGE ENDS—

  This sequence is comped from cams all over the reactor area, beginning with a shot of a blood-spattered control room on Deck 13 and two blood-spattered teenagers.

  Malikov’s looking grim, tapping on his palmpad and sparing the occasional glance for the girl slumped against a bank of auxiliary terminals. The lanima that jumped her is dead, coiled in a puddle of tar black. Donnelly seems a little shaky, the throat of her envirosuit glistening with what look like ropes of thick snot. Lank blond hair is draped over her eyes, but she doesn’t dare remove her helmet to brush it away.

  Malikov turns back to his palmpad, stabbing the glass with gauntleted fingers.

  Nik M: talk 2 mecuz

  Nik M: ella u there

  Nik M: wherethey @?

  Malikov knows Falk’s team is drawing closer every second they spend here. Problem is, he’s got no idea which direction the squad is approaching from, and without his cousin to guide him further, he’ll be running blind. But even with the sabotage on the reactor unfinished, standing still just isn’t an option.

  “Hanna, we can’t stay here. BT goons are on their way.”

  “…Which direction are they coming from
?”

  “Ella’s not responding. I think their decker is onto her. But we’ve gotta jump. Now.”

  Focus comes into Donnelly’s eyes, and she drags her stare away from the dead thing smudged along the floor. Speaks to Malikov, groping for some kind of calm. “Hold on. Just think for a second. If we head out blind, we could run right into them.”

  “And if we stay here, we’re sitting ducks.”

  “Are there more…” Donnelly glances at the slaughtered lanima, the coiled muscle and countless teeth. “Are there more of those things out there?”

  “Probably. The reactor’s nice and warm. It’s why Uncle Mike bred ’em in here.”

  “…How many?”

  “Maybe twenty.” He shrugs as she shudders. “But we can’t stay here, Hanna.”

  “We could head back up to the Hub through the vents?”

  “There’s BT goons in the vents. Anyway, in this suit, I don’t think I’d even fit in there.”

  “It’d be a squeeze.” She looks him over. “Does this slime still work when these things are dead? I doubt Falk’s going to flush the station anymore, with everyone else suited up. Maybe you could risk taking it off?”

  “Still trying to get me out of my clothes, huh?” Malikov grins. “I should probably have a shower first.”

  Donnelly scoffs, snatches a headset off the terminal and throws it at him.

  “Yeah, a cold one…”

  Malikov ducks, laughter dying on his lips as he focuses on the lanima’s remains, lying in its slowly cooling puddle of black. His eyes lose focus, then grow wide, and I swear to God, you see that ****ing lightbulb go off over his head again.

  “Cold shower…”

  He runs to the corner, opens the satchel he took from Flipside’s body in Bay 24. Checking the contents again, just to make sure. Rations. Water. Explosives. Detonators.

  Looking around the room, he spies a map on the wall—a detailed schematic of the reactor area, outlining the designated exit route in the event of a fire. Ripping the map out of its bracket, he slings Flipside’s satchel over his shoulder. Offers Donnelly his hand.

  “Come on. I got an idea.”

  THEY RUN.

  HAND IN HAND.

  AWAY FROM THE HUB. AWAY FROM THE SPECOPS SQUAD. AWAY FROM THEIR ONLY WAY OUT.

  METALLIC STAIRWELLS SPIRALING AWAY FROM THE WORMHOLE AT THE STATION’S HEART. FOOTSTEPS POUNDING STACCATO ON THE GRILLWORK. THEY RUN DOWN. ALWAYS DOWN. WARMER THERE, YOU SEE.