Tracer

by Rob Boffard

  Nobody answers. It’s almost certainly my imagination, but it seems like the room just got a tiny bit hotter, the air a little thicker, as if someone was blowing smoke. A thin film of sweat coats my forehead.

  “I think I know,” I say quietly, and everybody turns to me. I take a breath. “Or at least, I think I know how to find out.”

  I tell them about Grace Garner and what Okwembu wanted from her. “I was hoping she’d made it to Gardens and found Prakesh,” I say.

  “Why does it have to be us?” says Carver.

  I look at him. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s got to be an easier way to find her. Why should we stick our necks out by hightailing it up to Gardens?”

  “Because there’s no one else. No one we can trust.”

  “How do you even know she’s in there? P-Man said he couldn’t find her.”

  “It’s our best shot. We look there first. If she’s not there, we can search the rest of the sector.”

  “Amira, back me up here,” says Carver. “You can’t think this is a good idea.”

  Amira’s silent for a moment, looking away. When she turns back to us, her face is hard. “Well, let’s see, Aaron. What I think is that I have one tracer with a dislocated shoulder, and two more who look like they tried to punch out a meteorite. My fastest tracer” – her gaze falls on me – “is currently the most wanted person on Outer Earth. And I just took down eight stompers getting Riley out of the brig.”

  “Amira …” says Carver, but she cuts him off. “And that’s not even taking into account the rioting, the looting, or the fact that every one of us is apparently going to die in a matter of hours – and we still don’t know how. Do I think going up to Gardens is a good idea? I think it’s a terrible idea. But we’re going to do it anyway.”

  Her voice hasn’t risen; it’s softer now, as quiet as a blade slipping out of a sheath. “We are not,” she says, and her voice is a husky whisper. She clears her throat. “We are not going to rely on anyone else. If Riley thinks this Garner person has information that could stop Darnell, then she and I are going to find her. We’re going to do it fast, and we’re going to do it now.”

  There’s silence. “What do you mean, ‘she and I’?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” echoes Yao. “You can’t be thinking about going by yourselves?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re doing,” says Amira.

  “Come on,” says Carver. “My arm’s busted, but my legs still work fine, promise.”

  “You stay here. That’s an order.”

  “Sorry, Amira,” says Yao quietly. “But Carver’s right. If you want to go to Gardens, fine. But you’re not leaving us here. Not on something like this.”

  Amira takes a long, deep breath, fighting back her anger. “All right,” she says, through gritted teeth.

  “I’m coming too,” says Prakesh. He’s been quiet for a while, and all eyes turn towards him.

  “No,” says Amira, exasperated. “They’re tracers. They can run. You can’t. We don’t have time to baby-sit.”

  “You’re going to Gardens,” says Prakesh, his voice hard. “How were you planning on getting in there?”

  “We’ll figure something out.”

  “Not very smart. Riley always told me you were better than that.”

  Behind us, Kev’s family has drawn tighter together on the bed. His dad, Ira, is there now, his arms around his wife. Kev’s grandfather is still staring at the ceiling, his lips moving silently.

  Prakesh steps forward, squaring up to Amira. She doesn’t move, her dark eyes locked on his. “I can’t get to Gardens on my own,” says Prakesh. “It’s getting dangerous out there. I don’t know the best routes, the ones that’ll be quiet. But you do. And you won’t get into the labs without me. We need each other.”

  For a minute, Amira just stares at Prakesh. I’m expecting her to refuse, but eventually she gives a curt nod. Prakesh is about to say something, but she raises a finger to silence him. “We won’t wait for you. You run at our speed, and if you get into trouble, you’re on your own.”

  Prakesh half smiles, and turns to me. “Ready to give me a crash course, Riley?”

  But Amira isn’t finished. “We take the monorail tracks. Get to the top of the sector, then cut around all the way towards Gardens. They won’t be running the monorail right now, not when there’s no food to ship.”

  “The tracks?” I ask. “You think we can make it?”

  “It’ll be safer than running out in the open. Quicker too, if we watch our step.”

  I’m about to protest further, but then I realise she’s right. It’s dangerous, but better than risking the catwalks.

  It doesn’t take us long to get ready. We leave the Caves, walking single file down the tight corridors, and this time nobody stops us. As soon as we enter the ground-floor corridor, we start running. Amira takes point, leading us up the station levels to the tracks; behind her are Yao, Kev and Carver, with Prakesh and me bringing up the rear. I’m not used to being in the back, and I’m nervous that he’ll fall behind or get hurt. But although he’s no tracer, and has to pull himself over jumps and walls that we take in a single leap, he stays with us. Somehow. I can hear his breathing behind me as I run, heavy and hard.

  The comms screens are black mirrors, reflecting us as we sprint past. I half expect them to spring to life, the face of Oren Darnell to appear, but they stay silent.

  To get to the tracks, we have to cross through the gallery, and we hear the crowd before we see it. The noise is a huge, angry buzz, as if every insect burned in the Food Lab fire came back for revenge. We’re still in one of the ground-floor corridors; the lights have gone, plunging it into near-darkness, with only the distant light from the galleries providing any illumination. The horrible noise fills the space. Before us is the exit to the gallery floor, and even at a distance we can see it’s packed with people.

  I’ve already heard from Yao how different groups are reacting to Darnell. The Caves are pulling in tight, letting hardly anyone in. The rest of New Germany is in chaos, with rumours of food riots, and the other sectors aren’t much better. Yao says she heard that Tzevya is doing OK – there’s a curfew of some kind, and an armed group preparing to find a way into Apex.

  Amira raises a fist, bringing us to a halt behind her. We pause, breathing heavily, standing in a loose circle. My hips ache with the effort, and a stitch is gnawing at my side. Prakesh comes in last, his face flushed, but Amira glances at him and his expression hardens. She turns away from him, beckoning us closer.

  “No running,” she says, her voice rough with exertion. “Single file through the crowd, and don’t talk to anyone. Go for the corridor at the far end, and wait. We’ll keep going when everyone’s through.” With that, she plunges into the crowd.

  I pull my hood up, hiding my face, and glance at Prakesh. He gestures me ahead, and I step into the galleries. The noise explodes around me. There’s a full-scale protest going on; at the far end, I can see a line of stompers with riot shields, protecting what looks like one of their captains. He has that speaking device, and as I slip through the crowd, he raises it to his mouth. “If everybody could remain calm,” he begins, and is drowned out by a fresh roar of protest. Something flies through the air, and he has to leap back as the projectile smashes on the platform.

  It’s hard to tell what the crowd want – whether they believe their leaders can just bring them Darnell, or if they want new leaders entirely. One of the stompers raises something above his head, but before I can see him bring it down I’m given a rough push to the right. Someone gets into my face, yelling, and I instinctively raise a hand in apology before hurriedly moving on. My heart seems to have climbed from its regular position to my throat, choking me. I’ve lost track of both the Dancers and Prakesh.

  I turn sideways to slip through a narrow gap in the thick crowd, and as I turn my head I see something that causes my heart to leap from my throat right into my mouth.

  Zha
o Zheng, the man who controls the Lieren, is standing a few feet away.

  His back is to me, but there’s no mistaking the bald head, lined with thick, jagged tattoos, or the hands, covered with tarnished metal, hanging at the end of unnaturally long arms. He wears a black, sleeveless vest, and is surrounded by four – no, five – Lieren. There’s a small space around them, and people seem to be giving them some room. If I’d taken a different route, I might have gone right through the middle of them.

  Someone bumps into me from behind, and suddenly I’m being propelled right towards Zhao’s back.

  In one horrifying instant, I see the chain of events locking into place before me, the knives coming out, the split second before I’m cut to ribbons, the triumphant smile on Zhao’s face.

  But I pull myself up, almost touching him, regaining my balance even as the noise from the crowd is drowned out by the roaring in my ears. At the edge of the group, one of the Lieren senses movement, starts to turn his head, but I quickly step backwards, vanishing into the crowd.

  It’s a little while before I breathe again.

  As I reach the edge of the gallery, I can see people spilling into the corridor beyond, but I quickly catch sight of the Dancers. It takes me a second to see Prakesh as well, leaning against the wall, his hands on his knees. Amira sees me as I slip through, but then the look of relief on her face is replaced with one of horror. Before I can say anything, there’s a hand on my shoulder, and I feel the cold touch of those metal rings.

  Zhao Zheng leans in until his face is right up close to my ear. “Going somewhere?” he whispers.

  45

  Riley

  There are at least ten Lieren. They stand on either side of their leader, fingering blades and flexing fists. The light from the gallery makes them into silhouettes, turning their bodies into little more than dark apparitions.

  Zhao gives a nasty smile, twisted by a small scar on the right corner of his mouth. The top of the scar meets the tip of one of his tattoos: a huge, slashing black mark, running up his cheek and around his head.

  Amira steps in beside me, but I raise a hand, and she stops, puzzled. The people at the edge of the crowd have seen what’s happening, and have started to move away.

  “Zhao, this really isn’t the time,” I say, but he just laughs.

  “Tell that to Marco,” he replies. He indicates one of the Lieren, standing off to the side, glaring at me. It’s the one who led the ambush that started all this, the one I kicked in the head on the run to Gardens. His nose is a bulbous black mess. His blade twitches, gripped tight in his hand.

  Hello, Tattoo. Apparently you have a name.

  I look back at Zhao. “They jumped me, and they tried to take my cargo. Your boy here” – I gesture at Marco, and his eyes narrow in anger – “wanted to cut my ear off. I was just repaying the favour.”

  “No, it doesn’t work that way,” Zhao replies. The smile stays etched on his face, but his eyes are cold. “You kind of – well – you insulted Marco. And that means you insulted me.”

  His eyes pass over the bruised twins, the crippled Carver. They’re standing firm behind me, staring down the Lieren.

  “I’ll offer you a way out,” he continues, leering. “Call it a debt of honour. We’ll leave, but we’re taking a body part of yours with us. I’ll let you pick which one.”

  Amira steps forward, her teeth bared. “Not going to happen,” she says.

  “I thought as much,” Zhao replies. And then he drives a fist deep into Amira’s stomach.

  She cries out and collapses backwards, the air leaving her in one huge burst. Time slows to a crawl as she falls. I leap forwards, twisting my left elbow round in the direction of Zhao’s throat, and the corridor explodes.

  Sometimes, the choice about whether to fight or to run gets made for you.

  Every one of the Dancers attacks at once in a wave of fists and feet. My vision blurs at the edges; Zhao dodges out of range, laughing, but it dies on his lips as I bring the elbow round into the face of another Lieren. I feel his cheekbone crack under the strike, hear the howl of pain, but I’m already bringing my right hand up, balled into a fist and swinging at the man behind him. He’s short, scrawny, barely out of his teens, and for a bizarre moment I wonder how someone like him ever fell in with the Lieren. Then my fist slams into his side with a noise like a wet jacket thrown into a corner, and he doubles over, retching.

  Yao takes a few quick steps back, and then launches herself towards Kev. He’s already dropping to one knee, cupping his hands to meet her. With a yell, she plants a foot in them, and Kev hurls her forwards. She explodes across the passage: a screaming, airborne ball of fists and feet, knocking two Lieren to the ground. As she tries to rise, another assailant appears above her – but doesn’t even get to plant his feet before Kev hits him with an enormous right hook.

  Behind them, Carver is facing off against two others; his arm is useless, but at the same moment that the Twins take down their opponents he launches himself towards the corridor wall, tic-tacs off and delivers a kick to the chest of one of the Lieren, knocking him backwards. Behind me, Prakesh makes a strange groaning sound – I can’t tell if he’s taking a hit or giving one.

  Before I can find out, someone drives an elbow into the small of my back. The pain is so sudden, so startling, that I can’t even cry out. It just stops dead in my throat.

  I fall forwards onto my own elbows, my vision a starburst of colours. Instinctively, I lash out with a foot, and catch something – a leg – which jerks away, accompanied by a sharp cry. A hand gropes my hair, finds a purchase and yanks upwards, snapping my neck back. I have a split second to try and pull away, but then the fist smashes across my face. I taste blood instantly, salty and metallic.

  Whoever owns the fist rears back for another strike, but then vanishes, ripped away. Amira, her left arm clutching her stomach, breathing heavily through her nose, disables my attacker with a jab to the throat.

  For a moment, we’re apart from the battle. I’m on all fours, staring up at her. A few feet away, Carver, Prakesh and the Twins duck, block, swing, strike, retaliate. Zhao is wielding a knife, a thin blade, long as my forearm. The knife rips into Carver’s right shoulder, opening a jagged wound. He grunts in anger, before grabbing Zhao’s knife hand and twisting. The blade flies out of his grip, bouncing and skittering down the corridor. I’m dimly aware that the noise from the gallery has got louder, though whether in reaction to the fight or because the crowd has finally broken through the line of stompers, I can’t tell.

  The Lieren are everywhere. Another runs towards me, his face gleaming with triumph. I’m back on my feet now, and sidestep before whipping my fist into his stomach, sending him crashing to the floor.

  And then it all goes wrong.

  From somewhere behind Amira, one of the Lieren appears – one I’ve never seen before. He’s tall, thin as a corpse, wearing a jacket of some dark blue fabric. In his hand, already raised over his head, a long blade: Zhao’s knife.

  It’s my imagination, it has to be, but the knife is as black as the deepest space, reflecting no light, and its wielder is fast, much too fast, and before I can do anything he’s swinging it down towards Amira’s neck.

  Every part of me kicks into overdrive, snapping the corridor into sharp, clear focus. But even as my hand is reaching out to block the blade, I already know it won’t be quick enough. Amira’s eyes widen when she sees me, and she begins to turn, but the knife is almost there, its point finally picking up a flash of yellow light.

  And then something – no, someone – appears between Amira and the blade.

  There’s a horrible sound, a kind of wet thud, like something plunging into a bucket of rotten food. The attacker’s knife is ripped from his hand, and he staggers backwards.

  Yao falls to the ground, the thin blade buried up to the hilt in the side of her neck.

  For one terrible moment, her eyes meet mine, and it’s as if someone has driven a blade through me instead.
The corridor has fallen silent, Lieren and Dancer pausing their attack, everyone fixated on the dark blood that suddenly begins to spurt from Yao’s neck, coming in thick, gushing bursts, collecting on the corridor floor. She sighs – a soft, calm sound – and then her eyes go dark.

  46

  Darnell

  Councillor Morton holds out the longest.

  He was one of the dozen people who ignored Janice Okwembu’s summons to the amphitheatre. He was in the council chamber, diagramming plans for diverting more resources to the Air Lab, when he heard Oren Darnell’s voice from one of the comms screens. He looked up just in time to see everybody he ever worked with asphyxiate, clawing at the walls.

  Now he’s barricaded the doors to the chambers. Unlike most of the sliding doors on Outer Earth, these ones swing inwards, and he’s pushed every chair in the room up against them, jamming the handles shut. It’s enough to hold Oren Darnell back for a good two minutes.

  Morton shrinks down behind the table, mad with fear. Darnell is using a plasma cutter, burning a hole through the steel door. The air is hot with the stench of ozone. In seconds, he’s cut a hole large enough to thrust his arm through – Morton sees the molten edge burn through the sleeve of his jacket, sizzle at the flesh beneath. Darnell doesn’t seem to feel it. He knocks the chairs away, then withdraws his arm and kicks the door open.

  Darnell crosses the room in seconds, a black hulk silhouetted by the ceiling lights. Morton is pulled from the chamber, Darnell’s hands on his shoulders. He tries to fight back, hammering on the giant’s arms, but he may as well try and bend a steel bar with his mind.

  Darnell drags him into the passage, spins him around, hurls him to the floor.

  “Whatever you want,” Morton says, and that’s when he sees Janice Okwembu. She’s standing behind Darnell. As his eyes fall on her, Darnell can see the pitiful hope in them, as if he thinks she’s arrived unnoticed, that she can knock Darnell out and save him. When she doesn’t move, he says, “Janice, help me.”