by K. F. Breene
“This craft is being sent to the Los Angeles office.” Ryker’s voice drifted through the partition. “It was caught up in that issue earlier.”
“Sir?”
“You didn’t hear?”
“No, sir. Our next briefing isn’t until noon, sir.”
“I thought this would’ve been pushed through. Anyway, no matter. This and that are going to the recycling yard.”
“That, sir? You mean . . .”
“Yes. The male.”
A pregnant pause filled the room. It seemed the staffer was hoping to get more information, and it was quickly becoming evident it wasn’t going to happen.
“Okay, sir.” A throat cleared. “I’ll pass you through. Be careful through the barren stretch. It’s gotten rougher over these past few months.”
“I’m not worried about it.”
“No, sir.” Heavy treads sounded before the gush of sliding doors announced the man’s exit.
“That was too easy,” Ryker said as the Wall rose up around them. The vessel passed through and then idled. The partition opened, revealing Ryker standing before them. “Crawl back. Stay low.”
“Go, go, go.” Millicent got the baby scooting into the main room before crawling in after her. Mr. McAllister lay on the seat, his eyes closed but his brow furrowed. “I hope your brow wasn’t furrowed the whole time,” she said.
It furrowed further. “Doesn’t matter, we’re through. But they’ll remember Ryker. As soon as they hear what happened, they’ll remember this meeting. They’ll know we came this way.”
“Why haven’t the security on the Wall been alerted to what happened?” Ryker wondered.
“Who would tell them?” Millicent saw scraping along the sides of the building as they passed. Deep grooves and pockmarks that were undoubtedly related to the many broken windows and jagged glass. This part of the Wall certainly wasn’t used for offices. “The order would need to come from the director’s office, right? Mr. Hunt is busy, and you’re here. Who else is there? Trust me, when the boss is away, the staffers do nothing.”
“Play.”
“What?”
Mr. McAllister’s eyes drifted open. “When the boss is away, the staffers play. It’s supposed to rhyme.”
“Why?” Millicent asked. “They weren’t playing when I was gone. They were just idling around, useless.”
“Is this a frog situation?” Ryker called from the front as a groan shivered through the vessel.
“I may not have tested as high as you two, but I certainly have some things you lack . . .” Mr. McAllister closed his eyes again.
A deep chuckle sounded from the front. Then Ryker said, “We’re clear. But this craft does not like leaving the city. Maybe we should’ve switched out.”
“Think it’ll make it?” Millicent rose up off the floor. Hazy brown fog engulfed the building behind them as the craft drifted away. In their wake, the structure looked like an enormous wall, solid and forbidding.
Hence the name, she thought to herself dryly.
“It’ll make it.” Ryker’s voice was level.
“So you’re not always overconfident. Hmm.” Millicent gathered Marie up and sat.
“How do you figure?” Ryker asked.
“The level voice. It’s a giveaway. No tone out of you means you’re unsure. You’ve shown your hand.”
Silence from the front.
Mr. McAllister crossed his hands over his chest but kept his eyes shut. “I am so tired. And you know what, I liked my life. I had an okay thing going. Nice place to live without roommates, decent income, I got to play with children and see them grow . . . And now here I am, hungry, tired, constantly in danger, and caught in a small space with overly smart natural borns who are annoyingly street savvy, stupidly resourceful, and too pretty for their own good. Worse, my Clarity has run out. I hope I won’t be as bad as Mr. Gunner . . .”
“You touch her and I will kill you with a palm and five fingers. How’s that sound?” Ryker said in a voice with plenty of tone.
“Super. Now I’ll be laying here trying to figure out why you specified the details of your hand when describing my death. Just one more terrifying thing to solidify this as the worst day of my life.” Mr. McAllister’s brow furrowed even more, if that was possible.
“I do think we broke your brain, Trent,” Ryker said lightly.
Outside the city, the landscape changed drastically. Decrepit buildings hunkered down with grime coating their surfaces and piles of debris lining the base of their walls. Crisscrossings of cracked and puckered cement ran along the ground, often with metal rods sticking out at odd angles. Rectangular dwellings layered the rolling hills to the east, and fields of black and broken solar panels lined the valley.
“Oh wow, there’s movement down there,” Millicent said, using her vessel’s cameras to look below. Hunched figures moved about on the ground, often covering themselves with a tarp or umbrella.
“The poor don’t have flying crafts,” Ryker said before ripping the top off a food pouch. He squeezed the container. Thick brown gel filled his mouth. “I hope you brought enough food. I’m hungry.”
“I’m stocked.” A large freighter passed under them, momentarily blocking her view. “How do the people get around? How do they get food?”
“Like they always have. Work and buy it from the conglomerate.”
“But outside the Wall? Who do they buy it from?” Millicent watched a figure scurry into a dwelling. She was too far away to make out any detail, but the agonized hunch and stiff movements suggested a harsh life.
“I think the conglomerate has shops out here. And people can take a ferry in. You have to pay to live in the city, though, and I think a great many of these people can’t.” Ryker ripped into another pouch. “I think they make food out here, too. Grow it with heat lamps, maybe. I’m not sure.”
“I had no idea,” Millicent said quietly. “They live in hovels. Are they a part of the breeding projects?”
“They are all sterilized.” Mr. McAllister’s arm, thrown over his face, muffled his words. “The conglomerates control all breeding. And before you say I should die, just know that this planet can’t sustain the numbers on it. Even now it can’t. So if people got to breed willy-nilly, there would be mass death as everyone fought for the limited resources to stay alive.”
“But why breed to create this?” Millicent asked. “These people aren’t living.”
“None of us are living,” Ryker cut in.
“I don’t think I can really complain,” Millicent said, taking a warmed pouch of food from the kitchen bay. She wasn’t accustomed to eating it cold like Ryker apparently was. Or maybe she just wasn’t as hungry. “My life was a cushy paradise compared to the existence of those people down there.”
“Some of us get lucky,” Mr. McAllister said. “And some aren’t needed for any job more important than packaging the food trays. It’s how the world works. How it has always worked.”
Millicent leaned back against the seat and watched the landscape change even more, from decrepit dwellings to places that barely cut out the harsh weather. Eventually, though, the structures dotting the ground thinned out and then nearly stopped altogether. Slushy bog spread away to the right, reflecting the harsh sky above.
Time ticked by slowly, making her eyes droop. Marie rested her head on Millicent’s legs. Her hair was fine and soft, flowing through Millicent’s fingers like expensive silk. She noticed Ryker up at the controls, intently directing them toward a destination hundreds of kilometers away. Strangely, with his planning ability and her fluency with systems, she half thought they’d make it. They certainly had a much better chance together than she’d had by herself.
Her head hit the back of the seat with a slight bump, and her eyes fluttered shut as fatigue dragged her under.
“Millie, wake up! Hurry!”
“What?” Millicent startled awake and clutched Marie. Ryker stood over them as the craft slowed to a stop. “What’s happening
?” She looked around with puffy, dazed eyes, noticing another craft through the windows off to the right. “Was I asleep?”
“I’ve never even heard of pirates,” Mr. McAllister was saying, peering out the window with a tense body. He ducked down quickly, crumpling to the seat. “They just brought out a gun. Oh Holy Divine.”
“Pirates?” Millicent said as the fuzziness cleared from her mind.
“Yes. Pirates. They plague this route.” Blazing blue eyes bored into Millicent. “This is a kill-first, ask-questions-later situation. These aren’t the sort of people we want to be captured by.”
“Oh Holy—” Mr. McAllister squeezed his eyes tight. “There’s another one. Another pirate craft just showed up. It looks rougher, too.”
Shoulders back and body at ease, Ryker moved to the console. “They are derelicts who have found a way to make easy money. Since the conglomerate puts security on their vessels, these fortune hunters prey on the weak. We are not weak. It’ll be a great surprise, don’t you think?” He glanced at Mr. McAllister. “You’ll keep that child safe. Millie and I will take care of this.”
“Good news.” Mr. McAllister crawled across the floor before dragging Marie down off the seat and into his lap. He scooted them backward and into the corner, where he tucked Marie behind the jutting seat.
Millicent extracted her heavy-duty jacket from the weapons bay, as well as two guns strong enough to kill but not to breach the vessel walls. “Let’s switch out our craft while we’re at it.”
Ryker’s fingers slowed across the console. The front partition closed with a thunk. He turned to her slowly, his brow lightly furrowed. “What’s that, cupcake?”
The gun clicked as Millicent cocked it. She lowered the weapon, keeping it down so the pirates on the other crafts wouldn’t see it.
She glanced out the windows, getting her bearings. The desolate landscape around them offered no cover or protection from the elements. If Millicent’s group lost the protection of the vessel, they’d die. Without question. None of them could last long out in the open, Marie least of all. But then, neither could their attackers.
A plan formed in her head.
Suddenly taking action, she took two quick steps and shoved Ryker. He barely moved, too heavy to be easily knocked aside. Without raising a question, though, he took a deliberate step away.
Her fingers flew over the console. “Switch crafts. Trust me.” She logged into the net and was immediately confronted with sloppy code a child could have put together, trying to capture her log-on and track her location. “Amateurs,” she muttered, working around them. “Which of those crafts is best, and are there any more coming?”
Ryker’s body bent as he looked out the windows. “The best one’s on the left. Nothing else but freighter vessels out there right now. Another pirate could be hiding below, but I doubt it. Doesn’t mean security won’t come along, though. If they followed us out of San Francisco, which we have to assume they did, a delay here gives Mr. Hunt more time to catch us. An injury won’t keep him from our trail.”
“Then we have to hurry.”
Ryker braced his hand against the wall to get a better view of the left-hand vessel. “Three in that craft. Shouldn’t be a problem to take over.”
“Here we go.” Millicent smacked the “Execute” button, causing the whole vessel to shudder. A deep rumble had Ryker glancing at his feet. He was unable to see, through the floor, the large gun mounted on the base of the craft as it extended. A loud keh-keh-keh announced gunfire.
The door to the craft shimmied open, blasting a gush of putrid air coated with moisture into Millicent’s face. “Overtake the left craft,” Millicent yelled.
She needn’t have bothered. Ryker had already jumped across the two meters of open space separating them from the neighboring vessel. His hand clutched a metal ridge as he bent over their outside control panel, working to open the pirates’ door.
Marie struggled out of Mr. McAllister’s grasp.
“No, no. No, Marie!” Mr. McAllister dived after her.
The doors of both neighboring vessels squealed. In jerky movements that indicated a run-down system, they quivered open.
Ryker worked hand over hand, in a vertical position, until he could swing into the open doorway. A knife blossomed into his fist. It slashed quickly, moving through the air in fast, precise movements. A spray of blood splattered against the side of the door before a loud scream turned into a gurgle.
“C’mon, Millicent, get moving!” Millicent said to herself. She clapped in front of her face, an action that often jarred her out of a tired daze from a long day. She bent to the console. Her vessel swung right until the door was near the opening of the right-hand pirate craft. She stabilized her vessel and then locked it into position. Smoke drifted up from the holes her weapon had punched in the pirate ship’s bottom. It dipped hard to the right as the operator tried to keep it airborne.
She leaped, trusting she was strong enough to clear the open space between the vessels, and her feet landed with a body-jarring thunk.
Gibberish assaulted her ears, the voice rough and confused. She ripped the gun out of her holster as two small thin men rushed her. She pointed and shot twice, pulling the trigger with conviction. The first pirate crumpled to the floor. A stray bullet punched through one of the windows. Another stream of environment seeped in.
Gun was too powerful after all. Damn.
A hand grabbed her shoulder.
She swung and rammed the gun against his chest. Flexed her finger.
The blast sent the pirate staggering backward.
She fired twice more, center mass, no hesitation.
His arms flung out to the sides before he tripped and fell, a surprised look on his face.
The vessel tilted wildly, knocking her into the wall.
A loud thunk hit the roof.
The vessel slanted the other way, knocking into her craft before losing altitude. Her adrenaline spiked. If this thing went down, she was going down with it, and she wasn’t positive on how to work the controls to pull it out of a crash landing. Theory without practice wasn’t a lot of good in an emergency.
Staggering, using the wall braces for stability, she worked her way to the cockpit.
The craft tilted and dropped before lurching forward.
Crack.
A long knife extended through the ceiling. The blade whispered by her ear, and the point stopped just above her shoulder.
“Shit!” She jerked away as the craft wildly tipped again. The floor punched her back as the soles of her feet flashed up toward the ceiling. Another knife extended down before the first pulled back up.
That was shiny new tech. It could only belong to one person besides her, assuming Mr. Hunt hadn’t shown up yet.
The craft wobbled. She rolled across the floor, and her shoulder knocked into the hard side. Dull pain throbbed from the point of contact and pulsed unpleasantly through her body.
With nails clawing the grimy floor, she worked forward, moving hand over hand. The horizon rose into the windshield. Red drenched the gray suit of the controller, his head lolling down. The bullets had run through the other pirate and struck the controller. Of all the bad luck!
“Hurry, Millicent!” she berated herself, her heart so far up her throat it was choking her. A metallic slice sounded behind her. Then again. Ryker would be too late. They were going down fast now. This was all on her.
Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the door frame and hauled herself up. A huge shape passed to her right, their vessel barely missing a freighter. The ground, rushing for them, filled up the whole windshield.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” Millicent clutched the controller’s gray tunic and yanked. The pirate half fell toward the ground. His legs were stuck!
“C’mon!” She yanked, warm blood coating her hand. Gritting her teeth, she pulled with everything she had, using the tilt of the vessel to her favor. His butt slid off the seat.
The ground was
only a hundred meters away.
She surged over him and clutched the throttle and the steering column. The craft moaned and shuddered, but it only slightly veered up. She covered the rough black surface of the column with both hands and pulled with all her might. The shudder grew more intense, and the moaning became a grinding. Cracked clay and soggy patches of mud enlarged through the windshield. More pressure; she gave it everything she had, pulling strength up from her toes to curb the frantic rushing toward the ground. Something popped. Sparks fizzed up the dash. A flame licked at a faded engraving that said “ottl.”
She pushed the throttle forward, cutting some power, hoping that might help . . . ? Then fell forward. The man below her rolled against the underside of the dash. Her elbow skimmed the surface. Heat seared her body. The craft surged upward while slowing. Too far upward, though.
“Crap,” she mumbled, fumbling with the controls.
“Just get it stable enough to hover,” she heard from the door. “Stabilize it or it’ll stall.”
“Got it!” She pushed the throttle forward. The engine roared. Power surged and the ancient vehicle shuddered. She flipped on the hovering capability. Immediately the craft leveled and then entered a wobbly sort of float, the sides randomly dipping before correcting. The grinding sound within the dash turned into a pop. Her breath wheezed out of her tight chest.
“Good job.” Knives retracted from the side of the craft before Ryker stepped through the door, not taking any notice of the dead men at his feet. A grin covered his face. “That was something, huh? Almost met our maker on that one.”
He strode forward. At the edge of the cockpit, he bent over the dead body, yanked it free of its wedged position, and threw the limp form from the craft. The body sailed through the air before dropping out of sight.
“Okay.” He slapped his hands, like he was shaking off dust, before joining her in the cockpit again. “Let’s get this baby back up where it belongs, shall we?”
Millicent stared at her hands, feeling an uncomfortable pinch in her stomach at the sight of the glistening red blood. With a churning stomach, she wiped them across the partition. “I haven’t seen a retractable knife like that. Where’d you get it?”