Tracer

by Rob Boffard

  “With that ankle? We don’t have time for this.” I shake my head, frustrated. “It’s not just that I’m the fastest here, which I am. I was there when she died, OK? I was there. She played me. She used me. This is my fight.”

  “Did you see what Darnell did to those stompers?” says Carver. “The ones who went through the Core? You want that to happen to you?”

  I don’t have an answer.

  “Riley’s right,” says Prakesh. “I don’t like it either, but this is the best shot we have.”

  “I’m not just going to sit here,” says Carver.

  “You won’t have to. The Core entrance is guarded, right? If we can create a diversion or something, we can get the doors open long enough to get Riley in. What’ll you need, Ry? Five seconds? Ten?”

  “Three,” I say, and walk right over to Carver. He avoids my eyes, but I place a hand on his good shoulder, and after a moment, he puts his on top of it. “I can do this,” I whisper.

  After a long moment, he nods.

  I turn to Kev. “We good?”

  “We good.”

  “Look, I hate to be the one who drops the doom-bomb here,” says Carver, “but it’s like I said. We’re not just talking about one stomper on guard duty. You don’t get into the Core with a wink and a smile. How are we going to get past them?”

  “There’s always stompers,” Kev says. “Five. Six.”

  I think, trying to picture the Core entrance. I’ve run past it plenty of times too: a big open room, bisected by the Level 6 corridor, with huge blast doors set into the ceiling. Equipment storerooms lead off the main area. There are control panels at opposite ends of the room – old things, with dusty digital readouts and clunky switches. Presumably, that’s how you open it up.

  Prakesh reads my mind. “There’ll be fail-safes there, too – more than likely two keycards or passcodes that’ll need to be used at the same time at opposite ends of the room.”

  I frown. “Can we get a keycard?”

  “I could probably hack it if we had enough time.”

  “How long?”

  He looks helpless. “Ten minutes?”

  “Why sure, officer,” says Carver. “This little speck on the wall is the most fascinating thing you’ll ever see in your life. But you’ll need to stare at it for at least ten minutes to fully appreciate all the nuances …”

  “Not helping,” I say.

  “We could lock the place down, maybe,” Prakesh says thoughtfully. “Get everyone out somehow and then barricade the entrances. It might buy us enough time.”

  I shake my head, frustrated.

  “Hello?” says Kev. We all look at him, and he spreads his hands wide. “Just break things.”

  Carver rubs his temple. “Much as I love your enthusiasm Kev, stuff tends to stop working when you smash it to pieces.”

  “Yes – but not the stuff it’s connected to,” says Kev slowly, as if talking to a child. His voice is clearer than it was before. “Smash the panels. The blast doors will think there’s been a power short. Open right up.”

  “Any chance it could work?” I ask Prakesh. Of all of us, he’s the most familiar with the station tech, especially the parts which give you access to secure areas. He thinks for a minute, his fist raised to his mouth.

  Eventually, he says, “It’s possible. Doors on Outer Earth are configured to open automatically using auxiliary batteries if there’s a power cut. Or at least, they’re supposed to.” Then he shakes his head. “But we don’t know anything about the Core system. It might not work the same way as the other doors on the station. We could spend hours wrecking the access panels, and it’d stay locked tight.”

  “I don’t like it,” says Carver. “There’s just too much we don’t know. We don’t get a second run at this.”

  I choose my words carefully, looking him in the eyes. “If there’s even the slightest chance that it’ll work, then I’m going to take it.”

  He returns my stare for a long minute. I’m certain that he’s going to argue some more, but then he says, “Well, you’re going in there, not me. Although if the doors don’t open I am leaving you there and running like hell.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Prakesh puts his hands on his hips. “I’m in too.”

  I take a deep breath. He’s not going to like this.

  “I need you to stay in Apogee. If it goes wrong in the Core, you’ll need to warn people. Tell them what we know.”

  Even before I’ve finished, he’s opening his mouth to protest, so I talk quickly. “We could be injured, or captured, or … anyway, it doesn’t matter. We need a backup plan. You’re it.”

  “If this is about speed, I’m not going to slow you down,” he says. “I’ve kept up with you so far, haven’t I? Let me help get you in there.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not about that. People trust you. They listen to you. Us?” I gesture to Carver and Kevin. “We’re just tracers. People pay us to take their cargo and get out of their sight.”

  His expression has softened a little, even if he isn’t completely convinced. I lower my voice. “You have to trust us, Prakesh. We can do this.”

  The silence that follows seems to stretch forever, but eventually he gives a curt nod, not looking at me.

  “So that’s it. We go,” I say. But still, nobody moves.

  Which is when I realise: this is when Amira would have inclined her head, the tiny gesture indicating that this is how we proceed. She’d be leaning against the wall, just there, her arms folded, staring into the distance, as if holding up every option individually and examining it for flaws.

  It’s Kev who breaks the silence – and before he does it, he glances at the place where Amira would have been, as if expecting her to reappear. When he speaks, he says, “If it comes to a swinging, swing all, say I.”

  It takes a moment for his words to make sense. Then understanding dawns: Treasure Island.

  With a small smile on my face, I nod. “Swing all.”

  Carver sighs. “Since I’ve agreed to this insane idea,” he says, “does anybody know how we’re going to get enough time to destroy these damn panels?”

  “Actually, I do,” I say. I’m thinking back to something Carver said. Something about running through it.

  It takes me less than two minutes to outline my plan. Carver is sceptical at first, but before long he’s nodding, thinking hard.

  “I’ll need to see if I can salvage a few things from the Nest,” he says. “I don’t have anything to work with here. Kev – you come with me. And you two: for the love of every god there is, stay here.”

  “What do we do if the man who lives here comes back?” Prakesh says.

  Carver winks at him. “Like Kev said. Hit him again.”

  He points to a big storage locker, over by the wall. “Meantime, drag that in front of the door after we’re gone.”

  They leave, and Prakesh and I haul the locker over to the door. When it’s in place, I take a minute to stretch, working my tight leg muscles and rotating my shoulders to work out the stiffness. All the injuries from the past few days seem to make themselves felt at once – the bruised collarbone, the ring around my eye, the marks on my neck and stomach from my fight with Darnell. The gashes in my hands and forehead, healing but still ugly, and the burn on my right hand where I pawed at my jacket sleeve in the fire. And I ache everywhere, my body telling me in every possible way that I’m nearly at breaking point. But I can’t stop. Not now. Please, I silently say. Just a few more runs. Then we’ll sleep. We’ll sleep for weeks.

  I sit down on the cot to stretch out my legs. Prakesh comes over and sits down next to me. He looks worried, more worried than I’ve ever seen him. “What are you going to do if they come after you into the Core?” he says.

  I shrug, try to act like I’m beyond worry, even though there’s a band of fear that feels like it’s squeezing my chest to bursting point. “What I always do, Prakesh,” I say. “I run.”

  I’m about to say s
omething else, but then Prakesh is kissing me with so much force that it nearly knocks me over backwards. I’m so surprised that for a second his open mouth is locked on my closed one.

  I pull away. “’Kesh, I … we can’t.”

  He’s shaking his head. “Why not?”

  I laugh, using it to mask the tremor in my voice. “Look at this place. It’s a mess. It’s not even ours.”

  I expect him to smile back. To let the moment pass. He doesn’t. He just looks me right in the eyes. His hand touches mine, clasps it, then squeezes tight and doesn’t let go.

  “You remember when you said you’d have to choose?” he says. “That if … that if we were together, you’d eventually have to choose between me and the Dancers?”

  He doesn’t give me the chance to answer. “I wouldn’t care. You hear me? Because even if you chose the Dancers, even if you couldn’t be with me, I’d still have a little bit of time with you. And now you’re going to Apex – you’re off on this stupid run – and you’re not giving me a choice.”

  “If I don’t—”

  “No, listen. I know you have to go. I get that. But you don’t get to do it without giving me a chance. You don’t. That’s not a choice you get to make.”

  His other hand is gripping my forearm now, and he pulls me into another kiss. This time, I kiss him back.

  “We don’t have enough time,” I whisper.

  “I don’t care,” he says.

  Neither do I.

  His hands, wrapped around my back, slip silently under my top, and begin tracing the curve of my spine. His touch is gentle, hesitant at first, but growing bolder, faster. Little prickles of heat shoot through me.

  We fall back on the cot, pushing aside the blankets, my hands pushing under his shirt, lifting it over his head. His mouth moves down to my neck, then my own shirt comes off and he moves lower still, kissing my breasts, skin on skin.

  He pushes me too hard, and my head bumps against the wall. I wince, but he’s there immediately, kissing my forehead and laughing. I try to tell him it’s OK, but I don’t get to finish the sentence, because right then he slips inside me.

  He holds it for a moment, looking me in the eyes. Then he slides deeper. The aches in my body vanish, melting away. Soon, there’s no hesitancy, no holding back: just us thrusting together, and my nails digging deep ridges in his flesh. His mouth, my mouth, his hands, everywhere, all at once. When I come, when Prakesh finally pushes us over the edge, it’s as if every scrap of energy I have has concentrated into a single burning point, deep in my own core.

  I can’t move, I can’t breathe. I don’t want to. I’d trade everything, every run I’ve ever been on, every good memory I’ve ever had, to freeze time at this instant. His hand is on the back of my neck, his skin warm. It feels good.

  Like how I imagine sunlight would feel.

  Afterwards, we lie together. Our breathing has slowed, quietened. He lifts his left hand and caresses my cheek.

  “You come back,” he says. “No matter what happens, you come back to me. You find a way.”

  And I whisper, “I will. I promise.”

  I hold him for as long as I dare. I want the memory of his touch to be as powerful as possible. If I die, if I can’t save my world, then I want this to be the last thing I remember.

  I don’t know how long we lie together, but by the time Carver and Kev come back, we’re clothed again, sitting against the wall quietly, sharing some more water. I thought there was nothing useful left in the Nest, but I guess I don’t have Carver’s eyes. He’s got an armful of tools and spare parts. Kev has managed to find some food: more protein bars, pulled from another of his secret stashes.

  We eat while Carver puts everything together. It takes him a little longer than I’d like, but eventually, he straightens up, pulling his goggles off.

  Prakesh hugs me tight.

  And then we’re out into the passage. And we’re running. Not in single file, not this time, but in a tight group, Carver and Kev close on my sides. We run at full speed, barrelling through the station, and for a little while, it’s almost as if we’re not running to any destination. We’re just running.

  62

  Prakesh

  Prakesh watches her go. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

  He sits for a few moments longer in the hab. The air is cold, but when his hand strays to the blankets that he and Riley were sitting on, he finds they’re still warm.

  Riley asked him to spread the word if they failed. He tries to think about how he’d do this, but it’s too big a task. Outer Earth is chaos, turned feral by Oren Darnell. How do you get people to stop fighting long enough to listen to you?

  He hauls himself to his feet. It’s more than that. He’s a lab tech. He knows about plants, and machines, and chemicals. He can transfer smoke from one room to another. He can’t capture people’s minds, or change them.

  I changed hers.

  Whatever he has to do, it won’t come from staying in here. Prakesh steps out, closing the door behind him. He can hear the fighting from here. It’s a jarring rumble of noise, trapped and funnelled by the corridors, twisted and bent by every corner. The air is thick and cloying, and so hot that Prakesh gasps. It’s his imagination, it has to be, but he could swear there’s a heat haze rising from the end of the corridor, shimmering in the lights. Somewhere, an alarm is blaring, an electronic voice spouting unheard warnings.

  The noise changes. Shouting. It’s closer – close enough for him to pick out individual voices.

  Prakesh wipes sweat from his eyes, and jogs down the corridor. When he comes round the corner, he sees a group of people standing in the middle of the next section. Three of them wear gang colours, blue shirts and armbands with black pants. They’ve surrounded two others, an old man and a much younger woman. The old man is wearing dirty overalls, with one sleeve tied off at the shoulder.

  The three gang members are poking him in the stomach, laughing at him as he tries to shield the woman. She’s twig-thin, her head completely bald. One of the gang members reaches over, and taps her on the dome of her skull, laughing. She shrinks up against the old man, who whirls around, screaming threats.

  “Come on,” says one of the others. “I seen you in the market before. You gotta have some food.”

  The man says something back, spit arcing from his mouth. A dot of it lands on the gang member’s shoulder, and he flicks it away.

  “You spat on me,” he says, and shoves the old man in the chest. He slams against the corridor wall, dropping to his knees. The woman screams.

  “Hey!” Prakesh says.

  They all turn to stare at him. Prakesh is walking towards them, a few feet away. There’s no possible way he can do what he’s about to do, but he keeps coming, bearing down on them.

  The gang member who shoved the old man gives Prakesh a crooked smile. “Keep walking, man.”

  Prakesh grabs the front of his shirt, pulling him in close. As he does so, he sees that he’s just a kid. So are the others – the oldest one looks like he’s barely scraping sixteen.

  “Hey, what—” the kid starts.

  “You think what’s happening gives you the right to beat up old men?” Prakesh says. His forehead almost touches the gang member’s, their skin so close that he can feel the heat baking off. “I don’t give the tiniest shit who you are, or what you think you can do. You’ll run, and you’ll keep running, and if I see you again before this is all over I’ll take that rag off your arm and stick it down your throat.”

  He lets go. The boy stumbles backwards, only just managing to keep his feet. The other two are shocked back to life, and the older one takes a step towards Prakesh.

  Don’t quit now, Prakesh thinks, deliriously. He screams in the older boy’s face. “Go!”

  It breaks them. They move away, not quite running, but not quite walking either. The one Prakesh took hold of looks back over his shoulder, his face threatening payback. Prakesh holds the boy’s gaze until they v
anish, disappearing round the corner. His heart is hammering in his chest, and he can’t quite describe what he’s feeling. It’s not quite surprise. It’s more like awe.

  “Thank you,” says the old man. Prakesh turns around and holds out a hand, pulling the man up. His skin feels hypersensitive, as if some weird drug has been injected into his veins.

  The woman wraps her arm around the man, her huge eyes taking in Prakesh.

  “Bastards,” the old man spits. “All of them. Take and kill, all they do.” The woman nods, a venomous look crossing her face.

  “Yeah, I know,” Prakesh says. The adrenaline is draining away, replaced by the cold glare of reality. Those three were kids. The next ones might not be.

  “Madala,” the old man says.

  Prakesh turns to him. “Huh?”

  “Name’s Madala,” the man says, thrusting out an ancient hand. Prakesh takes it, and the man pumps twice, then jerks his head at the woman. “This Indira. She not talk much, but she says hello.”

  The woman blinks at him, and nods.

  “Sure,” Prakesh says. “Listen, you two need to get inside. It’s only going to get worse out here.”

  “Ha,” says the old man, barking the word. “Inside? No. We come with you.”

  Before Prakesh can protest, Indira and Madala have grabbed him by the arms, and are marching him down the corridor. He tries to say something, but Madala talks over him. “You tell us what to do, we do it.”

  Well, OK then, Prakesh thinks.

  63

  Darnell

  “Where are you?” Darnell says, his eyes on the screens.

  His words are barely coherent, blurring together in a husky whisper. Around him, the control room is silent. He doesn’t know where Okwembu is, and he doesn’t care.

  He has the Apogee entrance to the Core up on the screen. The protection officers guarding it are restless and worried, pacing with their stingers out. No Hale.

  He selects another camera view – the Apogee gallery, the camera under the Level 1 catwalk, pointing down. It shows a gallery strewn with burning trash, wreathed in smoke. He’s lost count of how many times he’s pulled up the feed, hoping to see Hale being burned alive. Not for the first time, Darnell curses the cameras that no longer work, the blind spots in his vision.