Tracer (12 page)

His voice fades as he’s dragged into the corridor, dwindling to nothingness.
A fresh wave of nausea threatens to bend me double again as I realise what I just escaped. Amira’s hand is on my shoulder, worry creasing her face, but I wave her off, pulling it together, and stand. Yao walks by, supported by a medic, and reaches out to squeeze my arm.

Soon we’re out, into the tunnels, shot through with torchlight from dozens of stompers. Prakesh is holding my hand, gripping
it like he never wants to let it go, and then we’re onto the tracks by the platforms. Amira jumps up ahead of me, then reaches out for me. I have to let go of Prakesh to climb up, and when I reach back for him, I see that one of the stompers has pulled him aside to ask him something.

For a moment, I want to be down there with him, but then Amira and Carver are hustling me away, and then he’s
gone.

I was wrong about the Nest. It can hold plenty of people.

The corridor was already heaving when we arrived, and a huge cheer went up as people caught sight of us. Once in a while, gossip moves faster than the tracers – especially when it concerns someone as feared as Oren Darnell. Seems like everybody wanted to shake my hand or pull me into an embrace. I couldn’t help smiling, especially
when Carver started making loud hooting noises.

He quickly set up a makeshift ladder into the access hatch, ignoring Amira’s protests that we had to keep our home a secret (“It’s not as if people don’t know where we live already,” Carver told her, rolling his eyes, and Amira relented).

Soon, even more people started pouring into the Nest, filling it with music, plates of food, buckets of homebrew.
Someone brought some extra tattoo ink, which Yao and a couple of her buddies jumped on immediately, splashing it all over the wall. Despite her head injury, and the skanky bits of dried blood still crusted in her hair, she’s made a pretty swift recovery. Kev is still a little groggy: he’s been
given pride of place on the mattresses in the corner, clutching a cup of homebrew and staring blearily
about him, a small smile on his face.

I push through the crowd and find a clear space against the wall, relieved to go unnoticed for a moment. Whatever the medic used on my cut, it’s amazing stuff: the wound knitted within minutes, and although there’s a dull ache in my palm I can almost make a complete fist. Somebody pushes a mug of homebrew into my good hand, and I take a deep drink. For once,
the acrid, salty burn of the alcohol is welcome. I haven’t been drunk or even tipsy for quite a while, but I’m enjoying the buzz.

As more people climb the ladder into the Nest, they bring more rumours with them. Someone heard that bodies in Gray’s workroom had been identified, and a little while later, someone else arrives with names. Turns out one of them was someone fairly important: a man
named Marshall Foster. He used to head up the council, years ago, and moved down to Apogee after his retirement. None of the news coming up through the hatch explains why Gray killed him – or whether he was missing any body parts. In fact, nobody mentions the eyeball at all – it’s probably still somewhere in the Air Lab.

Gray might have messed up in a big way when he killed Foster, but he was
on a roll. There were two other bodies in lockers. Gray had snatched a sewerage tech and a mess worker using his quicksleep serum, taken them back to his room by the tracks, and done … things to them. Conspiracy theories are already flying around as to what Darnell and Gray were planning together – and whether it had anything to do with Foster’s death.

With an effort, I shake off my dark thoughts.
Looking over, I see Amira drop onto the mattresses next to Kev. She’s sober, despite having knocked back more homebrew than anyone.
She leans close to Kev, tilting her head to his ear and whispering something which makes his smile grow wider. She catches my eye, and winks before raising her glass in my direction. I raise it back, and take a slug of the drink – this time, the burn is too much and
I cough.

“That’s what I always said about you, Riley,” says Carver, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You never could hold your booze.”

He’s in a good mood. Before we left, he had a chance to raid Gray’s place for spare parts, and even managed to grab a few vials of the quicksleep.

“I think I’ve earned this drink,” I say, laughing.

“Oh, hell yes.”

He leans in close. He’s drunk, his eyes unfocused
and floating in their sockets, but it’s a good drunk. “They’re going to be talking about this for years. The girl who took down the monster of the market.”

“Gray?”

“That’s what everybody’s calling him. And then there’s Darnell – he’s locked up in the brig with about fifteen guards. I think half the sector wants to break in and beat him to death.”

“You do know it wasn’t me who killed Gray, right?”

“Doesn’t matter. People believe what they want to. One dead murderer, one corrupt Air Lab boss in jail, two rescued tracers. Not bad for a trouble-magnet like you.”

“Careful,” I say, but there’s a smile in my voice. “Anyway,” I continue, “nice work on the party. Who brought the booze? Or did we trade for this one?”

“Suki had some with her,” he says, waving back over his shoulder, indicating
a girl in the corner with a shocking crop of bright red hair, chatting with Prakesh. I know her, vaguely.

Carver wanders away, tottering towards Yao, who’s still
working on the wall with her friends. It’s a riot of colour, extending upwards to the ceiling, the wet ink still glistening in the lights.

Your world’s going to end
.

Prakesh catches my eye and gives a questioning thumbs-up. I nod and
smile, but Darnell’s words cling to the edges of my mind like dust.

Words like
sleepers
. And
in the days to come
.

Almost without realising it, I’m pushing off from the wall and walking across to Prakesh.

“Hey you,” he says. “You know Suki, right?”

The red-haired sprite flicks me a small salute.

“Thanks for the drink,” I say.

“No problem. My brother and I make it. Beats going to work.”

I turn to Prakesh. “Listen, I’m going to take a walk. I’m feeling a little closed in.”

“Are you sure? I can always come with you if …”

“No,” I interrupt him, forcing myself to smile. “I’m fine. Just need to clear my head.”

I’m worried he’s going to insist – concern is written on his face – but then he smiles too. “I guess we know you can take care of yourself,” he says.

I feel like I have to
say something more. “Listen, I’m really sorry. About before.”

His smile flickers, but he brings it back, waving me away. “I’m good, Ry. Promise. Get out of here.”

I hold his gaze for a moment, matching his smile, then turn to leave, ducking through the door. Behind me, another massive cheer goes up, and I turn to see Carver kissing Yao. She has her hand clasped around his head, his on her ass,
and behind her Kev is looking stunned. Amira is laughing. “Aaron, I told you, no work relationships!” she says.

Unbelievable. I drop through the hatch.

The sector is surprisingly quiet, and I slip unseen through the corridors of Outer Earth. I’m taking it easy, walking more often than running, my bruised body grateful for the break.

The brig is on the bottom level, and my mind drifts as I head
down towards it, the homebrew giving my thoughts some extra colour. I’m trying to piece everything I’ve been through together – Gray, Darnell, Foster. I’m dropped so deep into my own world that it takes me a few seconds to realise that I’m walking past the Memorial.

The corridor here is wider than most, and the Memorial takes up a whole wall. Proper paint, not just tattoo ink. Janice Okwembu
commissioned it – she runs the station council now. Everybody was allowed to draw something – I must have been the only one in the whole sector who refused – and right in the middle, they let one of the more talented artists paint the ship itself.

I look at it before I can tell myself not to, pulling my jacket closer around me. The painting has faded over the years, but is still recognisable.
The huge, tapered body, the swept-back fins, the bulging sections near the back which would have held supplies. And underneath it, in black lettering: Earth Return.

There are religious icons too: dozens of them, stacked on top each other. Candles, crosses, metal bent into strange shapes. Tributes to Allah, Yahweh, Buddha, Kali, Vishnu, to gods I can’t even name.

I try to stay away from the Memorial
as much as I can, taking the upper levels when I need to leave Apogee. I’ve spent too long staring at it in the past, and it brings back too many memories I’d rather leave behind. I walk on, my gaze locked on a point further down the corridor. Before long, I reach the brig. It’s small – just a few cells, located near the Chengshi
border. As I approach, I can see four stompers standing outside,
clad in the usual grey uniforms. They look cold and lonely.

Two of them see me coming, and their hands drop to the holsters on their waists, fingers close around the butts of their stingers. But then one seems to recognise me, and motions his buddies to back off.

“You’re the one who found him, aren’t you?” he says.

I nod. “That’s me.”

“I got to admit, that takes spine,” says one of the others.
“I’m impressed. Have to say though, it’s a good thing we got there when we did.”

They’re more relaxed now – apparently a single tracer isn’t a threat. I take a deep breath. “So this sounds weird, but I need to get in to see him. There’s something I need to know.”

A swift shake of the head from the first guard. “Not a chance.”

“Seriously, I’ll be two minutes. In and out.”

But he stares impassively
back at me. His colleague steps forward. He’s a man almost as big as Darnell, and his jumpsuit seems ready to burst off him. “You heard what the man said. No one gets in. You did well today, but go home.”

The thought of trying to flirt with them crosses my mind, but I push it away, irritated with myself. Bribery might work, and I’m on the verge of offering them a job or two for free when I see
Royo walk up to the barred entrance behind them. I shout his name, and he looks up, his face clouding with concern.

There’s a metallic buzz. The gate slides open, and he strides towards me. He looks tired, more human somehow. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

I hurriedly explain to him what I want to do. His eyes narrow. “Do you think we haven’t talked to him already? You don’t just hire someone
to kill a council member for fun. But he hasn’t said a damn thing.”

“He’s known me for a long time. I used to run jobs for him, remember? He might let something slip.”

“He nearly killed you.”

I don’t have an answer to that one. But after glowering for a moment, Royo relents. “Fine,” he says. “You come in with me, you stay two minutes, then you leave. And if I even get a hint that you’re going
to do something stupid, I’ll have you in a cell of your own so fast your words will still be hanging in the air.”

The other guards, bored with the conversation, have gone back to chatting among themselves. We step through into the entranceway – there are two doors, and the inner one doesn’t open until the outer one is locked shut. Another ear-splitting buzz, and we’re through, into a small corridor
lit only by a couple of bare fluorescents.

The corridor opens up into a larger one, with the cells on either side. There’s no overhead light in this corridor, but the cells are brightly lit. Each tiny room contains a single hard cot and a toilet, and the front of every cell is covered with thick, transparent plastic, nearly unbreakable, with two thin slits cut in it for food trays. Some are occupied,
and the people in them are collapsed on their cots, shivering. It’s cold here; there’s no point diverting heat to the brig, and I pull my jacket closer around me. Walking next to me, Royo has gone silent.

We stop at the last cell on the right. I follow Royo’s gaze, and see Oren Darnell. He’s seated on his cot, staring at the wall, seemingly unaware of our presence and looking as if he doesn’t
feel the cold. He’s been given a thin, light-grey prison jumpsuit to wear.

“You have two minutes,” says Royo, and at his voice, Darnell swings his huge head towards us. His eyes have lost none of their malice, and as he sees me, his face stretches in another awful grin.

“Riley Hale,” he says quietly, his voice given an odd tang by the plastic.

I’m careful to keep my expression neutral. “What
did you mean when you said that the world was going to end?”

Darnell points to Royo. “Why don’t you speak to him? He’s already asked me the exact same thing.”

“And what did you say? Why is the world going to end?”

He stands up quickly, his huge bulk rocketing off the bed, at the barrier in an instant. I take a step back.

“Not
the
world,” he says. “
Your
world. The world will carry on as it
always has.”

Royo tries to pull me away. “Same shit. You don’t have to listen to this.”

I shrug his hand off, and Darnell laughs. The control I worked so hard to keep vanishes. I slam a hand on the plastic. It shudders under my palm. “Tell me!”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he says. His voice is innocent, carefree, awful. He looks like a man whose destiny has finally revealed itself. “Why would I?
It would spoil the fun. And there is going to be so much fun, you believe that.”

“Kind of hard to do from inside the brig, don’t you think?”

His eyes are wide, almost beseeching. “We locked ourselves away in this metal box so we could continue to exist, even when everything on the planet was telling us that we’d failed. That’s something we’re going to fix.”

Without wanting to, I think of the
tagger, the one Darnell’s guard murdered, the one who was spraying up messages for voluntary human extinction. I force the image away. That’s not what this is. This is something else entirely.

Without another word, he turns and lies down on his bunk, facing the wall. I bang on the plastic again, yelling at him, but this time Royo’s hand on my shoulder is firm.