Split Infinity (29 page)
They could jump again fast if the Feds are here when they return, but it’s still such a risk. I’ve already seen how many ways something could go wrong, so many ways to lose someone you love. My thoughts float back to last night with Mum, and the words she said:
I’m proud of you, sweetheart. Every step of the way.
As if she was trying to set me free.
Maybe all along it’s been me who needed her more than she needed me.
Something in me shifts as I realise what I have to do.
I’m strolling along the footpath in front of Echo and Amon’s house when the police show up. My pace slows at the sight of their pod-bikes. I’ve never seen anything like them, black teardrops on two wheels, pulsing blue on the back and sides. Four of them.
Slap bang in the middle of the driveway I come to a stop, faking surprise even as my heart pounds my ribcage. What sort of crim recognition cameras do they have these days? Will they pick me as Carolyn Karimi? It’s been ten years, but either way I’m ready.
Sort of.
A siren whizzes from the front pod and I overact confused as well as surprised, even as I stay exactly where they found me. They’ll be able to see Boc and the others on the grid, and they’ll assume that they’re still safely contained. They won’t realise every minute that passes gives the skippers a smidge more time to regroup and escape.
I peer into the pods and step closer as if I’m trying work out what’s going on.
A panel lifts on the front pod and an officer steps out. He’s in a crisp ink-blue uniform, a hard jaw beneath an aero-helmet, one foot resting on the edge of the pod.
‘Move along,’ he barks.
So they haven’t worked out it’s me. I’m almost disappointed. This would be easier if they had. I shake my head, dopey confusion. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
From inside the pod a comm sounds, a series of sharp sentences, but I only catch the final word:
illegal
.
In a split second, the officer reacts. One arm reaches for his hip in a single fluid movement. He lifts a sharpshooter, aims it. And shoots.
My training is all that saves me.
I snap into a skip.
Thirty seconds later, I’m back, and ducking fast, barely able to process what just happened. They’re
shooting
at illegals these days?
I grab my clothes and accelerate into a sprint, catching a flash of the police officer’s expression before bolting up the street.
His jaw is dropped, eyes wide as he presses two fingers against the side of his helmet. From behind me I hear his report: ‘Request immediate backup. Sir, we got one.’
Okay, so they didn’t pick me as Carolyn Karimi, but I’ve given them essentially the same thing: an illegal who can time skip. Test her with anything, lock her away for good. They would have learnt ten years ago when I jumped out of the helejet that Zygoral doesn’t work.
‘Stop or we’ll shoot!’ A different voice this time, amplified.
I swerve. A puff of dirt explodes to one side about three steps ahead of me and my pulse shoots into overdrive. A second puff explodes in front of the pile of branches before I duck behind it, grabbing for the handlebars of the bike.
‘Hold your fire,’ someone calls, fainter and muffled. I don’t think they were shooting to kill, but that doesn’t make me feel any safer.
I’m on the bike and pedalling with all I have towards the other end of the street. It’s a race now. There’s more of them, and they’re faster, but I can manoeuvre easier. And I’m off-grid.
I turn a sharp left up a driveway, bumping hard over garden beds and down a series of steps to the back of the block. Rolling free, I swing a leg over and jump off, almost crashing into the back fence. It’s not too high, so with a grunt I lift the frame over the fence. The bike tips and falls with a thunk on the other side. I pull on the clothes and I’m over in a flash, panting as I turn to check behind me. One pod is waiting in the street, flashing blue and red, facing the driveway. The others are nowhere in sight.
Back on the bike I pedal with all I have for the front of the block I’ve climbed into. Lights flash blue at the end of the next street. I slow and wobble on the wheels to avoid a passing car, then hammer the pedals straight across the road and up a new driveway on the other side. This one’s easier to pass through, a massive block of flats with footpaths running either side. Over the fence again and cutting across the next street.
I’m panting hard, my throat dry and face burning, but my mind is clear. I know what I have to do: keep the Feds busy, give the others as much time as possible to find Boc’s message and prepare to jump again. At the same time, I have to find a safe place to jump. It has to be somewhere I can’t be trapped when I return, impossible to build a cage. A place where trees can’t grow and buildings won’t appear overnight.
When I reach the next residential street I turn along the footpath and ride towards the highroad, wheels humming as they spin. I’m cactus if the police are waiting at the intersection, but I’ve just cut across three back roads so they’ll be lucky to pick where I am now. But their backup pods will be on their way. If I don’t move fast, they’ll come at me from all sides.
This is my chance.
My heart lifts as I reach the highroad and steer along the footpath, pedalling like crazy for the Western Highway. Cars whoosh like jets on the road beside me, making the bike pull to one side each time one passes. But at least the footpath is clear. The throb of engines makes me turn to find four or five drones in the distance and coming my way. I’m still off-grid but I won’t be out of sight for long.
But that’s okay. Hiding isn’t my plan.
I’m nearing the West Gate Bridge when I see a gap in the traffic and steer straight onto the road like a kamikaze bike rider. An alarm screams and warning lights flash red on all sides. The background hum drops as smartcars screech to a stop.
I focus on the approaching cars, super alert and ready to jump if I need to. But I make it, shooting like an arrow for the next lane of traffic, triggering a new set of alarms and another drop in speed with the second lane. This batch is so close that I actually scream as I swerve out of the way, back into the first lane with cars all slower now.
I’m still here. And the plan is working.
Now I begin pushing up the rise of the bridge: twelve lanes packed with cars and one illegal on a bike blocking their way. The handlebars vibrate as the road rumbles beneath my wheels. There must be a fast train whooshing past in the lane below.
All around me, cars drop into a second deceleration and flash emergency lights as I crisscross from one lane to another between batches of cars. For as far as I can see, traffic is slowing and banking up.
Panting hard, I rise out of the seat as I force the bike up the slope of the bridge. At the back of my mind I imagine Mason returning in the fire shelter with his folks, regrouping with the others, preparing for a fifty-year skip. All that matters now is being there when they return. I’ll be there.
But even so, I know that each push of the pedal is one more step further from Mum. Each second that passes is a part of a countdown to a time when I’ll have to face a world without her in it as well. But I can do it this time. I know that I’ll make it fifty years, and I have so many reasons to go. For every day Mum lived on half rations in order to keep me alive. For every time Alistair steered a colleague down a different path in the hunt for illegals. I can’t fix what’s happened, but I can make sure Alistair didn’t die for nothing. I can make sure that Mum’s sacrifice feeds good in the world.
It’s not about paying them back anymore, it’s about finishing what they began.
The slope eases as I near the top of the bridge. Three lanes of traffic have come to a complete stop. I wind my way though the gridlock even as windows zip up and people shout for me to get out the way. Just a kid on a bike, a nobody from nowhere.
The other three lanes travelling west are creeping slower now too, one single block in traffic rippling through the whole network. I leave the bike lying on the road, to keep them stopped just a little longer.
The wind is strong up here. I lean into the invisible force as I reach the centre pillar of the bridge. Lines of cars stretch as far as I can see either side of me, down the sweep of the lanes and further into the streets of Yarraville and beyond. Drones fly overhead, barking orders that disappear in the gale. From both ends of the bridge, police pods wind their way past the stationary cars, sirens blaring.
They think I’m trapped, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt this free.
I test a hold on the steel of the fence and lift myself up, reach for a higher rail and lift again. If I were chipped, the safety alarms would be kicking in now, warning a citizen away from a bad decision. But there’s nothing to stop an illegal like me.
I’m nearing the top of the fence when someone calls out behind me, ‘Hey, kid.’
When I turn to look down a tall man with sunken cheeks calls, ‘Come down, all right? You don’t want to do that.’ He’s standing near the open door of a smartcar. As I look down at him, four or five other people climb out of their cars and join him.
‘It’s okay,’ I call back to them. ‘I’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing.’ It’s weird because I feel as if they’re the ones who are trapped, controlled by the system, and I’m the one who needs to save them.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ a woman calls out. ‘Come down, sweetheart.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell them. ‘I reckon you’ll want to film this. Share it online.’ Mum will see it, and other citizens as well. The government won’t be able to hide us anymore. ‘What I’m about to do, it’s not a trick. Anyone can learn.’
They’re just staring at me now, the guy’s nose is sort of scrunched. But at least they’re listening. Curious. The woman disappears into the cabin of her car and pops back out holding her compad.
I pull up to the top rail and swing a leg over so I’m sitting on the top of the fence, the metal pressing into the backs of my thighs, the wind whipping hair back from my face. It feels like I’m sitting on top of the world. I can hardly believe I used to be afraid of this feeling. Instead of being scared I’ll fall it’s as if I’ve learnt how to fly. I grip the rail tighter, leaning against the wind as my eyes travel towards Yarraville and the fire shelter. I send a wish to Mason, carried on the breeze.
Make it back safe. Meet me in fifty years.
I turn back to the emptiness stretching below and suck in a lungful of air. My muscles tingle and adrenaline rushes through me as I push hard against the rail. Someone screams behind me as I drop, clearing the edge of the bridge. Gravity sucks me fast. I shut my eyes, and reach for the future.
This time, I’m ready.
This book owes a huge debt of gratitude to Hilary Rogers – thank you for all the chats and advice; I wouldn’t have made it without your support. Thanks also to Penelope White, Sarah Magee, Charlotte Bodman, Marisa Pintado and the rest of the team at Hardie Grant Egmont. Kudos and gratitude to Karri Hedge once again for her clear and perceptive editing.
Thanks to all the friends and family who celebrated the
Lifespan of Starlight
and heard about the ups and downs of writing this second instalment, to name a few: Chrissie Keighery, Sara Gerardi, Susie Petris and Jordan Lukies.
To my wonderful husband and kids – Campbell, Porter and Elm – thanks for believing in me.
Finally, to everyone who emailed after reading the
Lifespan of Starlight
– thanks for sharing the fun and excitement. (My favourite phrase comes from Orlando: ‘I nearly fell off that cliff-hanger!’) At last, here’s book 2: I hope you enjoy.
