Impact

by Rob Boffard

  I thought I could get past them, wait until they’d cleared out, then keep moving. But it doesn’t matter how much adrenaline I have, or how confident I am–they’re going to find me. They’ll be on me in seconds.

  I look out at Fire Island, and realise that I know where I am. I can place myself on the ship. And at the same time, Koji’s words come back to me. We’d need a lot more guns to even think about getting to the bridge.

  Maybe we don’t need a lot more guns.

  Maybe we just need one.

  74

  Riley

  I lean out over the edge, and crane my neck upwards. The frame of the opening extends a foot or so beyond the wall, and the deck is thirty feet above my head. At first, I see nothing but smooth metal, and fear rises up inside me, a black spot in the angry, white heat. But then I see the rivets, each the size of my closed fist. There are small openings in the hull, too–miniature ovals, with ancient, rotted cables hanging out of them like tongues.

  You can do this.

  The voices of the guards are getting closer. I take two quick breaths, then make my move.

  I don’t have time to be scared. I don’t have time for anything. I reach for the nearest cable, fingers snagging, jerking it sideways. Then I swing myself off the edge.

  I slide down the cable, burning the skin on my hands. My foot catches something, a rivet, and it brings me to a jerking halt, with one leg cocked at an awkward angle. The air is cold on my face, the wind wicking sweat from my forehead.

  I start climbing, moving as fast as I can. My muscles scream as I haul myself up the cable, lunging for the ovular opening. I get a hand in it, then thrust upwards, hunting for a second one. My body moves faster than my mind, and I jam myself against the other side of the frame, out of sight. I nearly fall, my foot slipping on the surface. I have to be still. For five seconds, I don’t dare move.

  I can hear the guards in the doorway. If one of them looks around the frame, they’ll have a clear shot. The only thing protecting me is the illogical nature of what I just did. Nobody in their right mind would try to climb up the side of the ship.

  “Did she jump?”

  “I don’t see her.”

  “Forget it. If she’s in the water, she’s dead anyway. Let’s go.”

  The voices fade. I wait five seconds, then five more. It lets the guards get out of earshot, but it gives me a chance to consider where I am. I make the mistake of looking down and out, and the sea feels like it’s rushing towards me, as if I’m already falling. The clouds reflect off the surface, the glare bright enough to make me squint.

  Grunting, I turn myself until I’m face up against the wall, and start climbing again. One hand at a time, focusing on planting my feet. The rivets are evenly spaced–I use them to hold my feet up while I hunt for handholds. I can feel the wall starting to curve, tilting me outwards, but I just push my torso into it, refusing to let it defeat me. The sound of gunfire inside the ship reaches me, elongated and warped.

  Then, suddenly, there are no more handholds. The section of hull above me is completely smooth. Worse than that: the curve is more prominent, jutting out above me as the deck extends over the water. I keep my breathing deep and even, cheek flat against the surface. The metal is freezing cold, damp with condensation and sea spray, speckled with gritty rust. I have to find a way. I can’t stay here, and the thought of climbing back down is enough to make my stomach lurch.

  I look to my right. There’s platform bolted onto the edge of the deck–a metal grate, five feet wide and ten long. It has a pair of antennae hanging vertically off the bottom, spaced maybe four feet apart. Each of the thin metal tubes has a fist-sized bubble at the end, and they’re swaying in the breeze, the metal creaking gently. They must be radio antennae–maybe they’re even the ones that broadcast the message.

  Suddenly, I’m back in the Yukon, trapped on that clifftop by the wolves, preparing to jump to the branch jutting out of the rock. That was nothing compared to what I’m about to do. Here, I have to jump sideways, with no gravity to help me on distance.

  My foot slips off one of the rivets. I cry out, my fingers aching as my foot flails at the air. Somehow, I manage to get it back on, manage to get myself flat against the wall again. Wind whips at my clothes. I can’t stay up here. I either jump now, or I fall.

  I lean to my left, as far as I can go. Then, in one movement, I throw myself the other way, towards the closest antenna.

  My world shrinks down to my forearms, my hands, the tips of my fingers. I touch metal, my fingers wrapping around the cylinder, and then my hands slam into the top of the bubble. I can feel the antenna straining, reaching its limit. If I swing too far, it’ll snap right off.

  I lift my legs up, gritting my teeth, controlling my swing. I come to a stop, hanging with my arms extended, my numb fingers wrapped around the antenna. Instantly, I realise my mistake. I should have used my swing, channelling the momentum into an upwards lunge. Nothing for it: I’m going to have to do this ugly.

  I can’t pull my entire body up the antenna. My arms won’t take it. I need something to take the weight, and that means I need to get my ankles wrapped around the second antenna.

  I throw my legs up, trying to snag it. My first attempt is a failure, and I feel my fingers slip a little. The pain in my arms is getting worse. My muscles are taut cables, stretched almost to breaking point.

  I try again. This time, I make it. I’m face up, my hands wrapped around the first antenna, my ankles gripping the second. It’ll take some weight off, give me some leverage. I close my eyes, ask my arms to do this one last thing for me, and start pulling myself up the first antenna. I tense the muscles in my legs and my core, teasing out every bit of leverage I can.

  More than once, I slip, sliding down the pole, the metal biting into my hands where they got scorched on the cable. I tighten the muscles in my legs, gasping as I keep pulling myself up.

  It feels like it takes hours. Eventually, I’m standing upright, my feet perched on the bubble at the bottom of the second antenna, my fingers gripping the edge of the platform. I take a breath, then climb onto it, forcing my body upwards, letting my arms take the weight.

  I roll onto my back, my tortured fingers clenching, my lungs and arms on fire. I’m on dangerous ground: rage might keep me going, but my body can only take so much of this.

  I let myself lie there for a full thirty seconds. There’s plenty of noise–the howling of the wind, the creaking of the hull, the smack of waves against metal, far below me.

  And bursts of gunfire from the Phalanx gun.

  It’s targeting the boats, firing out into the ocean. Whoever is operating it doesn’t know I’m here yet. I roll onto my stomach, then prop myself up on my elbows and look around the deck. There’s no one around. The old, silent fighter jets are lined up in front of me. The bridge itself is on my right, a tower at the edge of the deck. Its windows reflect the white clouds.

  Get up, Riley.

  I clamber to my feet and start moving, going from a walk to a jog to a sprint, staying as low as I can.

  75

  Prakesh

  The voice comes from a long way away. “Hang in there.”

  It takes Prakesh a full minute to work out what’s happening. He’s lying in one of the boats, propped up against the prow. The boat is full of people and equipment, and Prakesh can see that they’re speeding across the water. He can hear the roar of the boat’s engine, feel it buck as it climbs the waves. There are three other boats, moving alongside, all of them packed with workers.

  Another sound explodes across the water–a guttural roar, ripping through the frigid air. One of the boats tears in two, its surface shredding before Prakesh’s eyes. Its crew spill into the water, the surface churning with froth and blood.

  Prakesh’s boat reacts instantly, veering to one side. Someone collapses on top of him, and that’s when the pain in his chest really wakes up. He tries to scream, but can’t get enough air into his lungs. There is somethin
g very, very wrong down there.

  The boat changes direction again, digging into the water. The roar is coming in bursts now, seconds apart.

  “Hold on!”

  “Goddamn Phalanx gun—”

  “It’s gonna cut us apart.”

  “Turn. Turn!”

  Prakesh hears the motor throttle up another octave, its pilot pushing it to the limit. But it’s not going to be enough. They won’t be able to outrun bullets.

  He opens his eyes, and sees one of the other boats running straight towards them. Its pilot is panicking, turning the boat hard, desperately trying to get away from the hailstorm of bullets. Pain explodes through Prakesh as the boat collides with theirs. He feels the floor tilt underneath him, then it slams back down onto the water.

  The bullets are sending up spikes of white froth, getting closer by the second. Prakesh can’t look away.

  76

  Okwembu

  The Ramona has been torn apart from the inside out.

  The screens on the bridge are still displaying camera views, and each one shows nothing but fire and smoke and spitting sparks. The bridge itself is locked down tight–its doors barred, the men and women inside all armed with rifles. But that doesn’t stop worry from churning at Okwembu’s gut. It’s all slipping away from her, all of it.

  The people on the Ramona should have planned for this. Their setup–spacing their people, never letting the workers get hold of weapons–was clever. But they didn’t think it through. They didn’t think about what would happen if things went wrong. They were stupid. Sloppy. She won’t let that happen again.

  Prophet is still standing over the control panel, still in a mute trance. Okwembu looks across the screens, hunting for something she can use. She can’t even tell if there are any workers left on board, and there’s no way to see if the Phalanx gun is hitting its targets. She’s already thinking ahead–should they give chase? Round up any stragglers?

  “How many boats do we have left?” she says, not looking away from the screens.

  She hears the guards shifting behind her, and lowers her voice to a growl. “How many?”

  “One or two,” says a voice. “There should still be some left on the C deck ramp.”

  “Go and secure them.”

  There’s no movement behind her, and she doesn’t have to turn around to picture the guards–to picture the lazy, slow expressions on their faces. She closes her eyes for a moment, then turns to Prophet. If she can just get him to—

  But as she does so, she gets a look out of the window.

  There’s a figure on the deck, sprinting across it, running between the line of disused planes. It’s heading right for the Phalanx gun. Okwembu stops, her eyes narrowing. In an instant, the figure is gone, covered by the wing of a plane. But Okwembu saw the dark hair, recognised the body shape.

  “Hale,” she whispers.

  And then raw terror floods through her.

  She doesn’t waste another second. She walks over to Prophet, grabbing him by both shoulders and turning him towards her. “You have to talk to the gun operator.”

  He stares at her as if he doesn’t know who she is. “Curtis?” he says, after a long moment.

  Okwembu has to work very hard to keep her voice level. She desperately wants Hale alive, but she doesn’t have a choice now. “Yes. Curtis. We need to talk to him.”

  Moving slowly, way too slowly, Prophet bends over a bank of screens. There’s a radio, attached to the edge of one of the screens on a coiled cable, and he unhooks it and pulls it towards him.

  “Curtis, are you there?” he says.

  Okwembu snatches it away from him, hammering the transmit button. “You’ve got a runner heading towards you on the deck. Take her out. Take her out now.”

  77

  Riley

  I can feel my body starting to rebel. The muscles in my shoulders and upper back are roaring in pain, and my arms hurt from my climb up the side of the ship. But I have to keep going. I have to get to that gun.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realise that it’s stopped firing. Has it run out of ammo? Are Prakesh and Carver out of range? I sneak a glance to my left, off the edge of the deck, but I can’t see any boats from where I am.

  I keep running. The body of the planes are too low for me to move between the wheel struts, but there’s just enough room for me under the wings. I’ll need to stay in cover–I’ll be too exposed out on the open deck.

  Ahead of me, one of the planes is tilted sideways. One of its wheel struts is missing, and the tip of its wing scrapes the surface of the deck. I tilt my body, leaning into the turn, already plotting my angle of attack.

  There’s a roar of gunfire, and the plane in front of me rips apart.

  Great gouges appear in the body. The cockpit glass shatters, raining down on me, and one of the wings almost shears off. If I hadn’t started to turn, if I wasn’t in the process of running around it, I would have gone right into the bullets.

  I switch direction, adjusting my angle, sprinting away from the planes–onto the open deck.

  There’s no choice. Behind me, the line of planes is being ripped apart. The noise is unbelievable. Something explodes–a missile, a fuel tank, no way to tell. I keep my head down, my feet hammering the deck.

  The gun stops firing, just for a second. Under the ringing in my ears, there’s a thin mechanical whine. The barrel is tracking me, turning in my direction, trying to aim ahead of me.

  I can’t outrun bullets. But I can outrun that barrel.

  The gun starts firing again. Bullets dig divots out of the deck behind me, so close that metal shrapnel bites through the leg of my pants. The fragments are tiny, nothing like the one that buried itself in my leg when we crashed the escape pod, so I ignore them. Acrid smoke stings my throat, but I ignore that, too. I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted to.

  The bridge tower is on my right. For an instant, the bullets stop coming, the person inside the gun not wanting to shoot the tower itself. I seize the advantage, pushing myself harder, hurdling a chevron-striped ramp. But the gun is still tracking me, and, a moment later, whoever is inside hits the trigger. Bullets split the air behind me. Gods, how many does he have?

  I’m ahead of the barrel’s targeting line–no more than a few feet, but it’s enough. I’m getting closer, leaning into the turn, coming up on the gun. A cry bursts out of me as I sprint the final few feet, and then I’m out of the line of fire, under the barrel itself. The bullets stop coming, the barrel shuttling left and right, hunting for a target.

  The gun looks even more menacing up close. It’s foundation is a metal box with rivets on it as big as the ones on the side of the ship. There’s a mess of machinery above the box: a rotating platform, with two wings bracketing a curving chain of bullets, each one the size of my ring finger. The gun barrel itself is like something out of hell, blacker than space itself, longer than I am tall.

  I move to the seaward side of the gun. At first, I think I’ve made a mistake–that the gun is controlled from the bridge. But then I see the door, set into the side of the platform, its surface caked with rust. There’s lettering across the door, in stencilled capital letters: PHALANX CLOSE-IN WEAPONS SYSTEM AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  There’s no valve lock–just a simple handle. The door is slightly open, and as I move towards it I see movement. Someone behind the door, trying to close it, lock me out.

  Not today.

  I sprint to the door, dropping my shoulder, driving hard. It slams backwards–whoever is behind it shouts in surprise, almost knocked off balance. They recover quickly, try to close it again, but they’re not fast enough. My follow-up kick almost knocks the door off its hinges.

  A man lunges at me. He’s pale from lack of sunlight, his lank hair hanging down his face in thick, gungy strands. He throws a clumsy punch, aiming for my face. It’s the work of half a second to grab his arm, turn the strike against him. I shove him backwards, then come in after him.

  I see
screens leaking green light into the gun’s interior. There’s the most awful smell–stale sweat and rotting food, mixed into a horrible miasma. I try to ignore it, dodging another of the man’s punches. He’s off balance, and I take the gap, grabbing the back of his head and smashing it into the wall.

  He mewls in pain, but his hand keeps moving. I look to the side, and see a rifle on a nearby chair–one he’s hunting for, feeling his way towards it. I stop him, gripping his arm, turning him around in one move and twisting it behind his back. The mewling noise becomes a yell, deafening in the tiny space. I make a fist with my other hand, then slam it into the pressure point on the back of his neck.

  I give him a shove. His body sprawls across the floor, his head thumping off it. He’s twitching slightly, his eyes rolled back in his head, but I barely notice. All my attention switches to the screens.

  Some of them are radar displays, others internal readings from the gun. One of them shows the deck, where the gun is currently pointing, and there’s a complicated target reticle overlaid on top.

  I slide into the chair. The seat underneath me is still warm. My hands slide over the control panel, stopping when I find a small joystick with a prominent button on it. I give it an experimental push. The body of the gun vibrates around me as the motor kicks in, and the view on the screen changes, moving to the left. Slowly, the bridge slides into view.

  “OK,” I say to myself. “Here we go.”

  78

  Okwembu

  Okwembu can’t see Hale any more. The tracer vanished when her path took her along the wall of the bridge tower. It doesn’t help that the deck is shrouded in drifting smoke, obscuring the Phalanx gun. Half of the planes are on fire, their fuselages hanging in shreds.

  The bridge behind her is silent. No one speaks. They’re all staring out of the windows, their faces illuminated by flickering screens.