Tracer [Riley Hale 01]

by Boffard, Rob

  “’Kesh, we don’t have much time,” I say through gritted teeth. His hand is digging into my shoulder, each step causing it to flare with pain. “Do you think you can run?”

  He starts to answer, but is cut off when gunshots echo down the tunnel. I turn to Prakesh, my eyes urgent, and with a supreme effort of will he seems to clear his head, forcing away the aftereffects of the crash. The blood at the corner of his mouth is just visible in the gloom. He lets go of my shoulder, and starts to jog, first haltingly, then with more confidence.

  We reach the station way ahead of the crowd, stumbling and shouting in the blackness of the tunnel. I hop onto the platform, then reach out and haul Prakesh up. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to keep running, but one look at Prakesh and I know that we have to rest, if only for a minute. He’s breathing heavily, almost panting, and his face is contorted with pain. My shoulder is burning. When did I last have a drink? In the control room in the Air Lab, when Garner was telling us her story, right before …

  I close my eyes. A moment later, I hear the crowd in the tunnel. They’re closer than I thought.

  I pull Prakesh towards the station’s main door; the platform is smaller than the one at the main station up the track, and I’m hoping it’ll bring us out near the gallery. From there, it’ll just be a matter of climbing up the levels to the Core entrance. Assuming, of course, that we don’t get torn to pieces by a mob on the way.

  The first of the attackers arrives at the platform just as we slide through the door. He manages to get off a strangled “They’re up—” before I slam the door shut, cutting him off. I have no idea if it locks, and I don’t have time to check. We’re in a small open area in one of the corridors – as far as I know, the Core entrance is a few minutes away.

  “This way,” I say, already picturing the route. We’re on the same level as the Core entrance, but there’s the gallery between it and us. That means we’ll need to cross on one of the catwalks.

  We’re almost at the gallery when we see it. The entire corridor has been blocked off, this time by a bunch of burning debris. A single sprinkler is sputtering above it, dripping white flecks of chemical foam onto the fire.

  I double back. Prakesh groans, but follows, and we hit the stairwell, dropping down onto Level 5. Please let the way be open this time …

  It doesn’t take us long to reach the catwalk. The gallery below us is mostly empty, but there’s bad noise filtering in from somewhere, shouts and screams and banging. There are still a few people on the catwalk. One of them, a man wearing a tattered pair of overalls, is fighting with a stomper, grappling with him, as if trying to throw him off. It’s hard to tell what they’re fighting about.

  He takes a swing at the stomper, his fist balled up and his face a horrible grimace. The move swings him around, and our eyes meet, just for a second.

  The stomper goes down. The man sprints at me, screaming. “Are you watching? I’ll kill her for you! Do you see?” He’s got no weapon, but the expression on his face is one of such rage and desperation that it leaves me paralysed.

  Prakesh steps in front of me and swings a punch so fast it’s just a blur. The man drops, out cold. Prakesh swears, clenching and unclenching his hand, but even as he does so I see the other people on the catwalk look our way. I swing around, hoping for anything, a weapon, a way to run, but we’re trapped. Behind us, an angry mob, and in front, even more of them. And still, my body refuses to move.

  “Riley …” says Prakesh, glancing at me. He’s backing up now, his eyes on the people advancing towards us.

  There’s a noise from above. I look up, startled, and see someone leaning over the railing of the Level 6 catwalk. Someone shouting my name.

  Carver. And beside him, hanging off the railing: Kev.

  It takes me a second to understand what else Carver is yelling: a single phrase, but I can barely make it out over the shouts. He raises his voice; I hear what he’s yelling, and his plan is instantly clear; he and Kev are already leaning off the railing, their arms stretched towards us. On our own, it’s way too high to jump and grab.

  But what Carver says is: “Tic-tac!”

  I grab Prakesh, say through gritted teeth: “Up above. Follow my lead.” He stares at me in confusion, but there’s no time to explain. I take a couple of steps back, and then take a run at the gallery wall, taccing off it and throwing my body around, reaching up as high as I can with my outstretched hands.

  There’s a moment when I think I’ve missed them – when they’re passing through my field of vision too fast and I think that I’m going to crash to the floor below – but then Carver’s fingers close on my wrist, and grip tight. My momentum keeps me going through the swing, but he leans into it, adding extra weight, propelling me towards Kev, who grabs my other arm. His fingers lace tight around my wrist – and slip.

  I see it in horrifying slow motion, the tip of his thumb running up the back of my hand, his fingers scrabbling for a hold. But at the last second he makes a final lunge, grabbing my wrist tight. Without even waiting for me to stop swinging, they haul me upwards, their combined strength easily lifting my slender frame. Before I’ve even grabbed the catwalk railing, I’m yelling “Prakesh! Get Prakesh!”

  Carver yells something I can’t quite make out. I grip the metal tight, and throw myself over, aware of the need to get out of the way. I land in a sprawl on the catwalk, and scramble to my feet, running to Kev’s side and looking over the railing.

  They’ve got Prakesh. Somehow, he pulled off the move, and Carver and Kev have grabbed him cleanly at the wrists. But as I watch, I see someone else take a running leap at Prakesh. He jerks his foot out of the way just in time, and the man misses, giving a frustrated yell as he crashes to the floor. But the crowd behind him is angry, eager for blood.

  Someone hurls a length of metal pipe. It only just misses Prakesh, spinning away and clanging off the wall, but then Carver and Kev haul him bodily up and over, all of them falling in a tangle of limbs on the catwalk. For the first time, I realise that it’s deserted, and wonder why. But then Prakesh pokes his head out the top of the pile and grins at me.

  “You all right?” I say, trying to keep the worry out of my voice.

  “Hanging in there,” he replies.

  Under him, I hear Carver say, “Maybe chat when you’re not on top of us?”

  I don’t feel like laughing, but I do anyway. Carver and Kev get to their feet. “Hell of a way to treat your rescuer,” mutters Carver, which is swiftly followed by a surprised, “Whoa …” when I embrace him. I reach out an arm and pull Kev in, squeezing them both tight.

  “Watch the arm,” says Carver. I pull back, startled, expecting to see it hanging limp by his side, but it’s back in place. The shoulder, however, is purple with bruising.

  “Well, that was new,” says Carver, his eyebrows raised.

  “Don’t get used to it,” I say, ignoring the angry shouts from below us. “But I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy to see you. When we left you back there with the Lieren …”

  “With the knives? I’m surprised you think so little of me, Riley.”

  “And Kev,” I start, turning to him. But then I see him look away, clenching his fists. Yao. His Twin. It can’t be more than a few hours since she died, but it feels like weeks. I reach out a hand, but he doesn’t take it, just turns away slightly. It’s then that I notice his ankle. It’s swollen – not badly, but enough to probably hurt like hell when he moves. Where did that happen?

  A bullet ricochets off the railing. We all hit the deck. I’m painfully aware of how little protection the catwalk gives us, and I hear Prakesh yell over the noise, “The corridor! Go!”

  We don’t need telling twice. As one, we break for the corridor. It’s no more than a few yards away, but even as we start running I hear another gunshot, this one followed by screams from below.

  The far corridor is deserted; Carver, Kev and Prakesh have collapsed against the wall, breathing hard. “Why’s ther
e no one here?” asks Prakesh, looking around. “Where is everyone?”

  “Glad you asked me that,” says Carver. “Kev here came up with the rather brilliant idea of blocking off the stairs.” He gestures towards the far end of the catwalk. “Amazing what a localised slow burner can do to encourage people to find another way round.”

  “A slow …” I stop. Carver’s eyes are bright, and it takes me a moment to get my thoughts in order. “I thought you lost all your fire bombs to the stompers after that time in Tzevya?”

  “Not all of them.”

  Prakesh’s eyes are urgent. “The other stairs,” he asks Carver. “Did you do them too?”

  Carver shakes his head. “I only had the one. Those things are hard to make.”

  We get to our feet, but then Kev says, “Where’s Amira?”

  The silence that follows goes on just a second too long.

  “I don’t get it,” says Carver. “Wasn’t she with you?”

  Mercifully, Prakesh comes to my aid. “We’ll explain later. Right now, we need to get to the Core.”

  Carver glances at me. “He’s kidding, right?”

  “Nope,” I say, sounding braver than I feel. “It’s the only way into Apex.”

  “You’re going to Apex?”

  Kev’s shaking his head. “Bad move.”

  I have to bite back the frustration. “We’re running out of time,” I say, looking right at Carver. “Are you gonna help us or not?”

  “OK, Riley,” Carver says. “First off, you look terrible. I’m a little surprised you’re still standing upright. Second, you do know that the Core entrance is going to be rammed with stompers, right?

  “Yeah, but—”

  “What were you planning on doing, exactly? Because even if you get inside, you’ve got no thermo-suit. You’ll freeze solid in about ten seconds. That’s if you think you’re going in there alone, which you’re not.”

  I look to Prakesh, but he just shakes his head. He’s shattered. It’s in his trembling legs and hunched shoulders. I must look the same way.

  I turn back to Carver. “If we don’t get there soon, Darnell—”

  Kev slams his hand into the corridor, his fist balled up. The bang is so loud that we all jump, and when he draws it away, I’m a little surprised that the metal isn’t dented.

  “Yao’s dead,” he says quietly. “I’m not letting you die, too.”

  In the silence that follows, Carver says, “If we go in there now, it’s over. If we take a minute, figure out a plan, then maybe we have a shot.”

  “Where, though?” I ask. “There’s nothing left in the Nest.”

  “D-Company?” Kev says.

  I shake my head. “Nowhere near close enough. We’d spend too much time getting there.”

  Carver thinks for a moment, then his eyes light up. “OK, so you know the guy P-Man laid out?”

  Prakesh looks at him. “Huh?”

  “The guy you knocked down. Back there, before Kev and I saved the day.”

  “What about him?” I say.

  “I know him. He’s local. More importantly, I know where he lives.”

  “And he’s not exactly using his hab right now,” Prakesh says. “Clever.”

  “What if he’s gone back there already?” I say.

  Kev shrugs. “Prakesh can hit him again. I’ll help.”

  Carver’s eyes find mine. “Food, water, some sort of plan. That’s all I ask.” Before I can protest, he takes off down the corridor. After a moment, the rest of us follow. I’m not wild about busting into someone’s home, and there’s no telling who or what we’ll find there, but Carver’s right.

  Apogee has been torn apart. The corridors are a mess of bent metal, broken lights and power boxes that have been torn open and scavenged. Frequently, we have to travel in darkness, slowing to a crawl as we negotiate the detritus. Once or twice, we come across groups of people, either cowering in shadows or spoiling for a fight. But there’s not a lot of them, and they don’t seem keen to take on a large group of us.

  I ask Carver if it’s like this everywhere. He nods. “Every sector. Ever since that psycho turned off the convectors.” He looks at me. “We heard him on the comms talking about you. You must have really pissed him off.”

  Prakesh slips in beside me. “You OK?” he whispers. I nod, and he wraps his arm around me as me walk. I’m glad he does because, despite the heat, I feel like I’m about to start shaking.

  The hab is on Level 3, past the schoolrooms. The door’s locked, but Kev gives it a huge kick, and it flies open. The place is a mess, scattered with trash and scummy food containers. The floor and walls are streaked with grime, and the bedclothes on the single cot are rumpled. Kev wrinkles his nose. It looks strange on him, like something a child would do. He closes the door behind him, almost tenderly. Whether the owner is still unconscious or not, he hasn’t made it back here.

  It’s hotter here than outside, the cramped space collecting heat, springing more sweat from my forehead. Carver takes a quick look in the attached washroom. “Nobody here. I’m guessing the guy lives alone. Let’s see if he’s got a secret stash.”

  It doesn’t take us long to find the water. A single canteen under the cot, pushed right against the back wall. I force myself to take small sips when Carver passes me the bottle, not wanting to upset my stomach. There’s just enough for four of us. My thirst is still there, but it’s muted now, hovering in the background. Kev disappears for a few minutes; when he returns, he has his pack, and pulls out some apples and a few protein bars.

  I’ve never been so happy to see food. I’m a little worried that the owner of the hab might come back, but even if he did, I tell myself, what is he possibly going to do against four of us?

  We eat in silence, collapsed against the wall, the ceiling light above us flickering. I try to eat as fast as I can, but my stomach won’t let me. After a while, Carver says, “So are you going to tell us where Amira went? Because we could really use the extra help right now.”

  He says it with a smile on his face, but I see his eyes, spot the worry in them. Kev, too, is looking apprehensive. I’ve been dreading this moment, dreading it even before I’d really taken in that Amira was dead.

  But I do it. I take a deep breath, and tell them everything. When I finish, my mouth is a desert again, my body already aching for more water.

  The hab is silent; even the rumbling from the station around us seems to have ceased. Neither Kev nor Carver have said a word since I told them about Amira’s death. Kev is avoiding my eyes, his hands clasped together between his knees, his jaw set. But Carver – Carver is staring at me. His mouth is a tight line, and in his eyes, nothing but raw, barely contained fury. It shocks me more than it should, and it takes me a moment to realise why: I can’t remember the last time I saw Carver truly angry.

  I have maybe half a second to process this thought before he forces himself off the wall and dives at me, his hands twisted into claws, murder on his face.

  61

  Riley

  The attack is so unexpected that I just don’t react. Carver slams into me, forcing me back into the wall. His hands are aimed at my throat, but at the very last second he drops them, gripping my shoulders instead. He winces in pain as the force of his grip travels up his arm into his damaged shoulder.

  “You killed her!” he shouts, his mouth inches from my face, his voice cracking.

  I try to say something, anything. A million emotions jumble together: disbelief, then anger, then fear, flaring one after the other, like a set of lights on a circuit. Carver’s words have dissolved into incoherent yells. Tears stain his cheeks.

  Kev and Prakesh wrap their arms around him and yank him back. He finds his voice again, screaming, “Get off me!” He collapses back against the other wall, stumbling, like he’s drunk. For a few seconds, he just leans against it, and then sinks down, his fist slamming the floor in anger.

  I can’t take my eyes off Carver. He senses my gaze, and raises his head t
o look at me. This time, all he can manage is a whispered, “Why?”

  Somehow, nothing I can say seems good enough.

  For a long time, none of us do anything. Prakesh keeps a wary eye on Carver, but he just sits, his head down, his body shaking with silent sobs. Eventually, he looks at me. His face is blotchy and red, but his eyes are clear. The anger in them appears to have dimmed, but when he speaks, his voice is harsh. “Why’d she do it?”

  I shake my head. It’s like trying to describe something on the Earth below. Some animal I’ve only seen in pictures.

  It’s Kev who answers him. “Doesn’t matter now.”

  “Yes, it matters!”

  Carver’s words reverberate within the cramped hab, leaving a cold silence behind. I rest my head against the wall, trying to stop the tears I feel pricking the corners of my eyes, squeezing them shut. Out of nowhere, I see Yao’s mural, from before it was destroyed by whoever wrecked the Nest. I see its colours and its swirling shapes, the image so vivid that I can pick out the parts where the ink hadn’t dried yet.

  “We can’t bring her back, or change what she did,” I say quietly, turning to face them. The words sound awkward in my mouth, as if I’m reading someone else’s writing, but I say them anyway. “She thought we’d lost our right to exist as a species. I say: not without a fight. I’m going to run the Core. I’m going to find Janice Okwembu, and I’m going to end this.”

  I say it evenly, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. Nearly manage it, too.

  “I’ll go,” says Carver, getting to his feet. He won’t look at me. “I can do it.”

  I stare at him. “You’re going to run through the Core with a busted shoulder? Really?”

  “I’m fine,” he says. I step forward, and lightly tap him on the shoulder. He tries to turn away, but I see him grimace in pain.

  “I can do it,” he says again, but the fire has gone out of his voice.