Impact (31 page)

Carver crosses the fifteen feet in an instant, driving a fist into the guard's face.

The man crumples, his legs collapsing under him, his gun clattering to the floor. I barely notice. I'm already past Carver, skidding to my knees next to Prakesh.

I can't see the bullet hole. There's too much blood. Prakesh looks at me–there's a momentary flare of recognition, and then his eyes close, and they don't open again.

I fumble for his hand, gripping it hard,
willing
him to squeeze back. Nothing. I can hear footsteps around me, more than just Carver and Koji, and the corridor is suddenly filled with voices. But I can't look up. Carver has his hands on Prakesh's chest, hunting for the wound, trying to put pressure on it.

And that's when the voice inside me speaks.

I don't want to listen. But the voice is everywhere now, filling me with white-hot light, the anger burning away everything else.

This isn't just about the man who shot him
, it says.
It isn't about the people on this ship. It's about the chain of events that led you here, to this exact spot. There's someone at the start of that chain of events. She's responsible–for everything. And it's time for her to pay. Not tomorrow. Not later on. Now.

Slowly, I get to my feet.

“Riley, what are you doing?” Carver says. I glance down at him. His arms are red from fingertips to elbows, pushing down on Prakesh's chest. I should help him. Prakesh is dying in front of me, and I'm standing here, just looking at him.

You can't save him. Just like you couldn't save Amira, or your father, or Royo or Kev or Yao. You can't save anyone. The only thing you can do is avenge them.

The corridor is packed with people. Three of them are locked in an argument with Koji. The others are in a loose circle around us–other workers, wearing the same threadbare overalls. I recognise some of them as the ones who followed us from the generator room, but there are others I haven't seen before. The new arrivals have guns, rifles that they must have taken from the guards. And they've got supplies: containers of fuel, food, water canteens, as if they grabbed whatever they could on their way here.

I look past them, and that's when I find the source of the strange feeling: the déjà vu I had when I first arrived on the ship.

I know these corridors. I've spent my entire life moving through ones just like them, using their walls and ceilings and angles and obstacles to craft the fastest, most efficient routes. That's what I do. I'm a tracer–nothing more, nothing less.

I don't know why I didn't see it before. The guards might run this place, they might have weapons and they might have numbers. But in this environment? In this warren of corridors and right angles and hard surfaces? I'm in control. I am the single most dangerous person on this ship.

“Ry, you have to help me,” Carver says.

“Get him out of here,” I say. My voice is as calm as still water. “Get to the boats, get off the ship. Keep him safe.”

And before anyone can say anything, I start running.

Everything comes in flashes.

Prakesh is awake, being dragged down one of the
Ramona
's corridors. Something is wrong with his chest. It's like his ribs is made of hot coals. Every time he tries to breathe, they flare up, searing him with impossible pain. He can hear someone screaming. By the time he realises it's him, he's falling back into darkness.

Another flash. He's outside, looking at the sky. No: not quite outside. The hull of the
Ramona
curves above him, a black mass blotting out the clouds. He's in one of the ovular entrances in the ship's side, lying on his back.

“How many boats down there?” It's Carver's voice.
He's alive.

“Three. Should be enough for us and the supplies both,” says someone else.

He saw Riley. He's sure of it. Where is she? Is she here? He tries to speak, but he can't get enough air into his lungs. He was shot. Why was he shot? He was on his way to find the other workers, to stop them from…

He doesn't know. He almost has it, but holding onto the memory is almost impossible.

Carver appears, leaning into view above Prakesh, arguing with one of the workers. His arms are soaked in blood, streaked up to the elbows. Dimly, Prakesh realises that it's his blood.

“You did
what
?” Carver is staring at the man, his eyes wide.

“There's enough time,” the worker says. Sweat is pouring down his face, and a cut on his cheek spills blood down his jawline. “We put down a long trail of fuel. It'll take a while to really catch.”

“No way,” Carver says, jabbing a finger at the ceiling. “Riley's still up there. I'm not leaving without her.”

“Fine,” the man says. “Then stay. But we can't come back for you.”

Carver turns away, on the verge of leaving. Prakesh struggles to speak, desperate to remember. But it's too much effort, and he feels his eyes starting to close again.

HAARP.

Prakesh's eyes fly open. He has to find a way to tell them. If they let that fuel catch, the detonation will sink the ship. There's got to be a way to stop it.

His throat is dry as old bone. He tries again, and this time sound escapes. It's a moan, low and weak, but it's enough. Carver looks down at him, just for a second.

Please
, Prakesh thinks. And somehow, he finds the strength to form words.

“HAARP,” he says. It's a rough bark, barely a word.

“You're going to be OK,” Carver says, squeezing his shoulder. He's getting ready to leave.

“HAARP,” Prakesh says again.

This time, his voice is stronger. Carver glances at him again, and there must be something on Prakesh's face, because he drops to one knee next to him, concern on his face. “What's that?”

“There's a HAARP,” Prakesh says. He tries to keep going, but his voice gives out, and he coughs. Pain envelopes him, and he blinks away hot tears.

“A
what
?”

Prakesh doesn't have much left. He can already feel himself slipping back into unconsciousness. He gives it one last try. “There's a HAARP unit,” he says. “On this ship. Climate control. Weather. You can't let it burn.”

It'll have to be enough. There's nothing left.

“What the hell is—” Carver says, and stops. His eyes go huge.

It was all Prakesh could do to provide the information he did, but he can see that Carver has put it all together. He understands. They're both scientists. He grows things, and Carver builds things, but they still come from the same place.

The worker appears in Prakesh's field of vision. “What's he saying?”

“You stupid,
stupid
son of a bitch.” Carver rockets to his feet, so suddenly that the man has to jump back. “This ship–it's got bulkhead doors, right? Where's the closest door to the fuel stash?”

“Door 6 on C deck, I think, but—”

“How do I close them?
Tell me
.”

Good
, Prakesh thinks.
That's good
.

And he sinks into oblivion.

The fastest a human being can run is twenty-six miles an hour. Thirty-eight feet per second.

Back on Outer Earth, the other Devil Dancers and I used to argue about whether anybody would ever break that record. I was sure someone would do it someday, even hoped I might do it myself. Yao and Carver insisted that it was impossible.

I don't know how fast I'm going. But right now, it feels like I've taken that record and doubled it.
Tripled
it. My legs are a blur. White-hot fury is exploding through me, acting like rocket fuel, propelling me through the corridors.

I have never moved this fast, or this cleanly. There's a T-junction ahead of me, and I barely slow down, leaping towards the wall, hardly aware of my own movements. I use my left foot to cushion the impact, then push myself to the side, zero momentum lost, the air roaring in my ears, my heart thundering in my chest.

It doesn't matter that I don't know the way. I just have to keep moving upwards, to the bridge. Okwembu will still be there. I'm sure of it. It's the safest place on the ship. It'll be heavily guarded, but I can figure that out when I get there. Right now, I feel like I could blow past them before they even raise their weapons.

I fly up a stairway, my feet hammering on the steps, four at a time. The anger inside me, the sheer
rage
, is like a miniature fusion reactor all on its own. An endless source of energy.

Two guards appear in the corridor, running towards me, guns up. One fires just as I jump, and the bullet scorches the air on my right as I jump towards the wall. I use the tic-tac to push myself higher, scalp scraping the ceiling, foot landing on the opposite wall, then pushing off again and driving my knee into the first one's face. I roll over him, taking out the second guard at the knees, and all the while the voice inside me is screaming.
Faster. Go faster.

My lungs are burning, but I take that burn and use it, pushing myself harder. At one point, the access to the level above me is gone, the stairs ripped out. I don't even slow down. I angle my run and tic-tac off the wall again, grabbing the ledge, ignoring the jagged metal biting into my skin. The momentum I have swings my body, and I pull it back, using it to launch myself upwards. I get an elbow on the ledge, then two, and then I'm up and running.

There's an entrance ahead of me, like the one leading into the generator room. The room beyond it is flooded with natural light–there's an opening in the wall on my right, another rectangular entrance port. The hangar itself is empty, an open space big enough to hold another six planes. I lean into the run, pushing myself harder. Okwembu can't be far, two more levels, then—

The door at the far end starts to slide open. It's big and heavy, moving on screeching metal rollers. There are shapes behind it in the darkness. Guards.

There's half a second when I think about running towards them. But even at the speed I'm moving, I won't reach it before the guards burst through. They can blanket the hangar with gunfire. I can't dodge bullets, no matter how fast I'm going.

I skid to a halt, back-pedalling, then lunge for the only cover I can see: the rectangular opening. I stop myself just in time, my foot skidding over the edge. There's nothing below me but cold sea. I can see Fire Island in the distance, dark and brooding under the cloudy sky.

The frame of the door is two feet wide–just enough to hide my body. I'm cursing the loss of momentum, but the anger is quickly replaced by fear. There's nowhere else to go. I can hear them, moving across the hangar, and I can tell by their voices that it's a big group of them. And then I realise–they're not sweeping through the hangar. They're heading towards the opening. I sneak a look, just peeking my head around the side of the frame. They're coming right towards me, guns low.

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.

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.