by Rob Boffard
Jojo grins, hefting the rifle and stepping into the corridor. “OK. I th-think I know w-where we are. Let’s—”
The bullet takes him in the side of the neck.
65
Riley
I’m on the guard in two steps, aiming a knee right for his groin. He sees it coming, manages to half turn, but he’s not even close to fast enough. My knee crunches into him, and he doubles over, wheezing. I shove him sideways, and his head bangs off the corridor floor.
“Shit,” Koji says, his voice curiously breathy.
“No choice,” I say as I get to my feet. I’m amazed that I can speak, even more amazed that he hears me over the blood pounding in my ears. But if he’d used the gun, it would have brought others running.
“No, I mean, shit!” Koji is pointing down the corridor. I look up–and that’s when the bullet buries itself in the wall next to me.
There are two more guards by the stairway. One of them is already turning, using the rail to swing himself around, shouting for help. The second is raising his gun again, taking careful aim.
I don’t turn to see where the bullet ended up. I run with my head and shoulders tucked in, zigzagging in the narrow corridor, presenting as small a target as possible. I can hear Koji behind me, hear his panicked breathing and stumbling footsteps. Another gunshot: this time, the bullet ripples the air above my head.
“Go right! Go right!” Koji shouts. Another corridor branches off the one we’re in, and I have to dig into the turn hard to stop myself from crashing into the wall. I scrape my shoulder along it, barely feeling it through the thick coat.
We crash down another steep stairway, tumbling into the corridor beyond. “Where’s the generator room?” I shout.
“Just ahead,” Koji says. He can barely get the words out.
Another left. Another right. The pumping noise is louder now, coming from all directions. But then another sound eclipses it. Gunfire. And it’s coming from in front of us, from further down the corridor.
“There,” Koji says. The corridor ahead of us opens up into a larger space, terminating in a vertical drop of a few feet. The floor is slightly curved where it meets the wall, the metal racks of equipment stretching beyond my field of view. I can smell engine oil, and, over it, the sharp stench of gunpowder.
There are two guards hugging the door on either side, their backs to us. One of them is blind-firing into the room, but the other–a man with powerful upper arms and thick dreadlocks hanging down his back–is picking his targets, aiming carefully. He squeezes off a shot, and there’s a howl of pain from inside the room.
These guards aren’t shooting at us. They don’t even know we’re here. What is this?
I don’t waste time trying to find out. If that’s the generator room, then it means the guards are firing on the workers. I don’t know why, or why it’s happening now, but something tells me I’ve got a much better chance with the people in that room than I have on my own.
The two guards haven’t seen us yet. I go faster, sprinting right for the entrance, pumping my arms from side to side, head down, eyes up, muscles on fire.
Dreadlocks whips his head round, finally noticing us. There’s no time for finesse here. I stutter-step, closing the distance, and launch myself towards him.
The first thought is to lead with my elbow, or my knee. But I launched a little too late, with no time in the air to line up the strike. The man’s head collides with my torso, the impact spasming through me, and then he and I are tangled up in a confusing embrace, everything spinning, my leg knocking into the door, smacking my head on the ground, trying to tuck into a roll, not quite doing it. I come to a stop, skidding on my back in icy water
The floor is under an inch of it, foaming with muck, and it immediately soaks through my clothes. The air above me is full of gunfire and angry shouts and screams of pain. I try to get up, propping myself on one elbow, then have to throw myself down again as a gun goes off. In the dim light, the other people in the room are nothing but silhouettes.
The gunfire has stopped, and now people are shouting, talking over each other. I can’t see Koji at all. What I can see is the other guard, the one who was blind-firing. He’s slumped over the edge of the door, blood trickling into the water.
“Get the door! Shut it!”
“Can we lock it from the inside?”
“Anybody hurt?”
“They’ll be more coming. Hurry.”
We’re in a chamber with rusted walls, bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Generators squat on low tables, looking like alien artefacts, all black piping and tarnished silver blocks. Tools are half-submerged in the water, spinning in place: wrenches, screwdrivers, welding goggles, something that looks like a primitive plasma cutter.
I look from face to face: men and women, less than a dozen, all dirty, all thin. Workers–have to be. I don’t see Carver, or Prakesh. I spot Koji–he’s managed to get inside, but whoever these people are, they’ve identified him as a guard. They’ve got him pinned to a wall, an elbow at his throat.
“No no no!” I shout, forcing myself to my feet. I can’t have them shoot Koji. I still need him. “He’s here to help.”
The workers look between me and Koji, suspicious, not sure how to proceed. I open my mouth to speak, and then feel a hand on my shoulder.
I’m still too wired from the run, and I spin round, my body moving before I can stop it, bringing my arms up, ready to fight.
Aaron Carver puts his hands on top of mine, and slowly pushes them down. There’s the strangest expression on his face–like he’s expecting me to vanish, like I’m a dream that he’s about to wake up from. His face is mottled with bruises, his lip split. A dried crust of blood marks his forehead like warpaint.
He reaches out, his fingertips brushing my face.
He’s going to say something smart, like he always does. He’s going to make a crack about always having to save my ass, or about me making an entrance. He’s going to—
Then he pulls me towards him, wrapping his arms around me.
And just for a second, I’m safe.
66
Okwembu
Prophet is hunched over a bank of screens, staring down at the scenes unfolding on them. His eyes flick back and forth, terror on his face. Gunshots flare on the screens, washing out the cameras.
Riley Hale is there. Okwembu saw her moving through the corridors, saw her take out one of the guards. She’s still alive.
She looks around the bridge. It’s packed with people, all of them watching Prophet, all of them waiting for an order. On one of the screens, something explodes, sending another flare of white light across Prophet’s pale skin. His lips are moving, but no words come out.
“Sir?” says one of the men, standing by the map table. He’s older than Prophet, more grizzled, but it’s impossible not to see the fear in his eyes.
Okwembu looks at him, then back at Prophet. He doesn’t react to the question, his eyes locked on the screen.
“Prophet?” the man says, more urgently this time.
Okwembu doesn’t hesitate. Prophet’s thin veneer of control is cracking open, and she’s not going to let the opportunity pass.
“You, you and you,” she says, pointing. “Lead your men down there and provide support. Get word to the gunner: if anybody tries to get off this ship, blow them out of the water. It’ll stop anyone else from trying to leave.”
She ignores the surprise on their faces. “You three,” she says, turning to face the others. “When they’re gone, you lock this bridge down.”
The man by the map table sneers, disgust winning out over fear. “I don’t take orders from you.”
For the first time since she killed Mikhail, Okwembu loses it. “I don’t care who you take orders from. If you don’t stop this right now, you lose control of the ship.”
She jabs a finger at Prophet, who hasn’t reacted to the outburst. “It’s exactly what he’d order you to do if he was thinking straight. Now get
moving.”
A dart of worry shoots through her, but she ignores it. She’s lived through revolutions before–usually, all it takes is a few deaths, and then the instigators stop fighting. They should be able to keep the majority of the Ramona’s workforce.
A ripple of emotion travels around the room, borne on glances and nods. The ones at the back move first, hefting their guns, then jogging for the doors.
“One thing,” Okwembu says, talking over the rising tide of voices. “The woman who Ray and Iluk brought in earlier. If you find her, I want her alive. Bring her to me.”
Prophet is finally looking at her, but she ignores him. She drops her head and closes her eyes, just for a moment.
Okwembu is tired. Tired of trying to keep people safe. She’s sick of it. She has tried, over and over, but no matter what she does, it never works. She has suffered, been imprisoned, nearly tortured. Whenever she has found supporters, they’ve been snatched away. And now, just as she finally finds a place she can keep safe, a place of order which she can control, Riley Hale comes along.
A woman she respected. A woman she had high hopes for. A woman who hates her, and wants to destroy everything she would build.
On some level, Okwembu understands Riley’s hate. She knows she deserves it, after what happened to the Akua Maru. But Hale is about to destroy the one thing she has left, and Okwembu will not stand for it. Not this time.
She is going to kill Hale herself.
67
Anna
All Anna Beck can see is stars.
There was no sound when the pod ejected. No roar of rocket engines. The airlock is designed to open completely in a fraction of a second, letting the vacuum shoot the pod away from the station. Anna’s heart has climbed up her throat and into her mouth–she’s struggling to breathe, as if she can’t push the air around its mass. The G-forces have welded her to the chair.
The touchscreen displays are alight, each one incomprehensible, as if the craft is daring her to take control. The pod is spinning, the stars give way to Outer Earth’s massive hull, moving from the top of the viewport to the bottom, vanishing before she can pick out any details. Three seconds later, it appears again, and Anna is sure she’s going to smash into it.
The feeling passes. Her hand is still locked tight around the joystick, and she makes herself push the top button. An engine bursts into life behind her, rumbling up into her spine. The pod tilts on its axis, the stars yawing to the right. A million tiny pinpricks, more than she could ever have imagined. The sun flashes into view, filling the cockpit with an awful glare.
Anna pulls the stick towards her–gently, almost tentatively. A different sensation this time, as boosters on the side of the pod fire. Dimly, Anna realises that she’s weightless. There’s a ripple of nausea in her stomach, and her sinuses feel strange, like they’re slowly filling with mucous.
With a tiny rasp of fabric, her beanie comes loose from her head. It was dislodged by the launch, and now gravity floats it above her eyeline, mocking her. She grabs it, pulling it back on.
“Fuck,” Anna says, the sound more of a breath than a word, horrifyingly loud in the silence.
Slowly, carefully, she stops the pod from moving. Outer Earth is no longer appearing in the cockpit viewport, and she has no idea where she is in space, but the stars have stopped moving. That’s good enough for now.
Tiny movements are best. Little flicks on the stick, no more. The two buttons control her thrust–the top one sends her forward, and the one on the front of the stick causes a burst of white smoke to shoot from a nozzle on the front of the craft, out of sight below the cockpit.
Outer Earth comes back into view. She nearly loses it, brings it back, and holds it.
For a few seconds she can’t tear her eyes away. Outer Earth is a monolith: a scarred, grey, ancient relic, hanging in the black void. The sun is behind the escape pod, and its light picks out the station perfectly.
The dock is easy to spot. It’s as if a giant monster locked its jaws around the station, and tore away a huge chunk. The wound is marked by a haze of debris, glittering in the vacuum.
Anna doesn’t know exactly where the tug will be–Dax didn’t tell her–but the dock’s her best bet. Pushing back the fear, she thumbs the thruster. The pod responds, and Outer Earth begins to get larger. It’s hard to control–the station keeps sliding away, only for Anna to overcorrect and send it veering in the other direction. How much fuel does she have? She doesn’t dare look down at the gauges to find out–if she does that, she feels like she’ll never be able to look away. The thought of being lost out here, trapped in the void forever, is enough to send her heart back into her mouth.
The hull looms in front of her, and she brings the pod around so that the nose is pointing towards the dock. It’s a little further along the station’s curve, but she can see the debris. Slowly, ever so slowly, she heads towards it, keeping a close eye on the nearby hull.
The debris takes shape. A crate here, a destroyed tug there. Half of the dock’s smashed airlock door. The mag rails that pulled the tugs inside the station are twisted and torn, spinning gently, as if they weighed no more than a human hair.
There’s an urgent beep, and one of the displays flashing a warning. PROXIMITY ALERT.
The hull. It’s too close, swallowing the right half of the viewport. She jerks the stick, and the pod drifts to the left, silencing the alarm.
There. She sees the other pods, just inside the destroyed dock. They’re widely spaced, rotating on their individual axes. Their doors are open–Anna can see inside one of them, right out of the viewport on the other side. Dax and the others have got their space suits on. They’ll be transferring to the tug, clambering aboard, getting ready to depart.
Anna thinks hard, picturing the dock as she remembers it. A huge hangar, packed with tugs and equipment. If she can manoeuvre her pod inside, if she can spot Dax’s tug, she can ram it. If it’s damaged, they won’t be able to use it, which means their only option will be to return to Outer Earth.
Except… shit. She’s not wearing a space suit. She didn’t even think to put one on yet. An awful image comes to her mind: the escape pod hitting the tug, cracking down the middle. She’s heard stories about what happens to a body in space–everybody on the station has.
There’s no time. She’s coming up on the debris. Anna pulls the stick, trying to steer her way through. Something scratches across the roof of the pod, and she yelps in fear.
She can see the tug. It’s hanging right in the middle of the dock, facing outwards. It dwarfs her escape pod: a bulbous, misshapen thing, with a prominent nose and small fins on the sides. There’s something on its underside, just out of view, something gold-coloured and thin. The heat shield.
Anna steers herself between two escape pods. Almost there, she thinks. Maybe she can come to a stop, let herself drift while she straps into a suit.
For a second time, the proximity alarm explodes to life. Anna’s head snaps to the side, expecting to see the wall of the dock creeping up on her. But there’s nothing–she’s through the pods, past the debris, so what—
She has half a second to register the man in the space suit, half a second to see the horrified expression on his face. Then he slams into the viewport with a bang that shakes the tiny escape pod.
68
Riley
I don’t try to process what I’m feeling: the relief, and joy, and fear, all tangled up in a big knot. I just let Carver hold me.
It’s a full minute before he lets me go. By then, the fabric of his overalls is wet from my tears, and my face is red and puffy.
He cracks a smile. One of his teeth is gone. “Nice of you to join us,” he says.
I smile back, wiping away more tears. “Not like I had anything better to do.”
There’s splashing ahead of us, and we turn to see a worker lifting one of the guards’ rifles from the water. He’s painfully thin, with lank hair and a gaunt, scarred face, but his hands are sure
as he checks the gun. Another worker is at the door, a woman with a closely shorn head and a nasty scar across the back of her neck. “Does anyone know how to lock this?” she shouts over her shoulder.
“Riley, I don’t…” Carver stops, shaking his head. “How are you even here?”
I open my mouth to tell him, but then I realise that explaining everything that happened to me would take longer than we have. Instead, it’s Prakesh who jumps to the front of my mind. I look around again, certain that I’ll see him among the other workers, but he isn’t there.
“I’ll tell you later,” I say. “Promise.”
“Seriously, what—”
“Right now, we need to get Prakesh, and then we’re going to find Okwembu. Where is he? Was he with you?”
“I can’t lock this,” the woman by the door shouts. A couple of workers respond, wading over to help out.
Carver looks at me. “We got separated. I sort of maybe mouthed off to the guards.”
He sees my expression. “Yeah, I know. Not smart. Ended up getting the shit beaten out of me. Bastards still put me to work, though–yesterday we were cleaning out the guards’ quarters, and today it was here.” He gestures around the dank space. “Water was leaking in and fried some of their generators. They put us to work repairing them.”
I point at the worker with the rifle. “But if you were working, then what happened with—”
“Beats me. One minute we were fixing holes in the hull, then the next a bunch of other workers burst in here and start shooting. Took the guards by surprise.”
He pauses, looking over at the man checking the rifle. “At least, I think they’re workers. We haven’t really had a chance to get to know each other.”
“We’re workers, all right,” the man says. He finally decides the rifle isn’t worth using–water-damaged, probably–and throws it aside, disgusted. “We were in the farm. The new guy did something–had us all soak our shirts in piss, then knocked out the guards with… hell, I don’t know what it was. Some kind of chemical stuff. Never seen anything like it.”