Tracer (2 page)

I jumped off the catwalk without checking my landing zone. I don’t even want to think what Amira would do if she found out. Explode, probably. Because if there’s someone under me and I hit them from above, it’s not just a broken ankle I’m looking at.

Time seems frozen. I flick my eyes towards the Level 5 catwalk rushing towards
me.

It’s empty. Not a person in sight, not even further along. I pull my legs up, lift my arms and brace for the landing.

Contact. The noise returns, a bang that snaps my head back even as I’m rolling forwards. On instinct, I twist sideways, so the impact can travel across, rather than up, my spine. My right hand hits the ground, the sharp edges of the steel bevelling scraping my palm, and I
push upwards, arching my back so my pack can fit into the roll.

Then I’m up and running, heading for the dark catwalk exit on the far side. I can hear the Lieren reach the catwalk above. They’ve spotted me, but I can tell by their angry howls that it’s too late. There’s no way they’re making that jump. To get to where I am, they’ll have to fight their way through the stairwells on the far side.
By then, I’ll be long gone.

“Never try to outrun a Devil Dancer, boys,” I mutter between breaths.

“So you don’t have it?”

The technician is doing his best not to look at Oren Darnell. He frowns down at the tab screen in his hands, flicking through the menu with one trembling finger.

Darnell’s nose twitches, and he takes a delicate sniff, tasting the air. He’s always had a good sense of smell. He can identify plants by their scent, stripping them down into their component notes.
The smell of the bags of fertiliser stacked along the walls is powerful, pungent even, but he can still smell the technician’s sweat, hot and tangy with fear. Good.

“I know it was here,” the tech says, shaking his head. He’s a short man, with a closely shorn head and a barely visible mask of stubble on his face. “Someone must have signed it out.”

He glances up at Darnell, just for a second,
then looks down again. “But it doesn’t make sense. That shipment was marked for your use only.”

Darnell says nothing. He reaches up to scratch his neck, glancing back towards the door of the storeroom. His guard
Reece is lounging against the frame, looking bored. He catches Darnell’s eye, and shrugs.

“Don’t worry though, Mr Darnell,” the tech says, snapping the tab screen off and slipping it
under his arm. He pushes it too far, and has to catch it before it falls. “I’ll find it. Have it sent right up to your office. Bring it myself, actually. You leave it with me.”

Darnell smiles at him. It’s a warm smile, almost paternal. “That’s all right,” he says. “It happens.”

“I know what you mean, Sir,” the tech says, meeting Darnell’s smile with one of his own. “But we’ll get to the bottom
of—”

“Do me a favour,” Darnell says. He points to the back of the storeroom. “Grab me a bag of micronutrient, would you?”

The tech’s smile gets wider, relieved to have a purpose, a job he can easily accomplish. “You got it,” he says, and scampers across the room, already scanning the shelves for the dull orange bag of fertiliser he needs. He sees it on the top shelf, just out of reach, and is
standing on his toes to snag the edge when something whistles past his head. The knife bounces off the wall, spinning wildly before coming to a stop on the floor. The tech can see his own expression in the highly polished blade. A thin whine is coming out of his mouth. The tab screen falls, shattering, spraying shimmering fragments.

“I always pull to the right,” Darnell says as he strolls towards
the tech. “Don’t hold it against me, though. Throwing a knife is hard – and that’s with a blade that’s perfectly balanced.”

The tech can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t even take his eyes off the knife, the one that passed an inch from the back of his neck. The handle is hardwood, shiny with oil, the grain smooth with age.

“It’s all in the arm,” Darnell says. “You can’t release it until your arm
is straight. I know, I know, I need to get better. But hey, you don’t have anything to do at the moment, right? Why
don’t you stay and help me out? It’s easy. You just have to stand real still.”

He points at the knife. “Pick it up.”

When the tech still doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything except stand there shaking, Darnell gives his shoulder a push. It’s a light touch, gentle even, but the tech
nearly falls over. He squeaks, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“Pick it up.”

“Boss.” Reece is striding towards them, his hands in his pockets. Darnell glances up, and Reece jerks his head at the door.

Darnell looks back at the tech, flashing him that warm smile again. “Duty calls,” he says. “Truth be told, it’s hard to find the time to practise. But don’t worry – when I get a moment, I’ll
let you know.”

The tech is nodding furiously. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Darnell turns to go, but then looks back over his shoulder. “The blade hit the wall pretty hard. Probably blunted it up good. Would you make yourself useful? Get it sharpened for me?”

“Sure,” the tech says, in a voice that doesn’t seem like his own. “Sure. I can do that.”

“Kind of you,” Darnell says, striding away.
He exchanges a few whispered words with Reece, then raises his voice so the tech can hear. “Good and sharp, remember. You should be able to draw blood if you put a little bit of pressure on the edge.”

He sweeps out of the room, Reece trailing a few steps behind.

I slow down slightly as I enter the Level 5 corridor. Drop-off is way up the ring, at the Air Lab in Gardens sector. With each sector in the ring three miles long – and with six sectors in all – it’s a long way to go. Unless you’re a tracer, with the stamina and skill to get things where they need to be. I don’t mind the distance – heading to the Air Lab means I get to see Prakesh.

I
smile at the thought, before remembering that he’s not there today. It’s a rare day off for him, one he was boasting about when I saw him a couple of weeks ago.

The package snuggled next to my spine – the one the Lieren want to jack in the hope it’s something good – is going to Oren Darnell, the man who runs the Air Lab. It was given to me by a merchant in the Apogee sector market. The merchant
– Gray, I think his name was – paid with six fresh batteries, slapping them down on the rusty countertop of his stall, barely looking at me. Totally fine with that; pay is good, so your package gets delivered.

As I enter the corridor I reach back over my shoulder for the thin plastic nozzle protruding from the top of my pack,
jamming it into my mouth and sucking down water from the reservoir.
It’s warm, and feels viscous in my mouth. There’s not much, but it’ll keep me going.

I’m in Chengshi sector, between Apogee and Gardens – just over halfway to the drop-off. I’ll have to stop to refill somewhere in Gardens, because there’s no chance of getting any water from Darnell. I might be bringing him a package, but asking that guy for water is almost as deadly as jumping off a catwalk blindfolded.

The corridors here are darker than before. I have to pay more attention to the surface as I run towards the next turn, watching for the places where the steel plates are twisted and bent. Surprisingly, there’s a working screen here, grimy with dust but still showing a cheery recruitment ad for the space construction corps. A smiling spaceman, clad in a sleek black suit with the visor up, wielding
a plasma cutter as he manoeuvres himself around a construction ship’s arm. The video fills the corridor with soft blue light, and as I turn the corner, I close my eyes for a split second. The light filters through my lids, flickering a warm orange.

I’ve never been there, but sometimes I like to imagine myself on Earth, running across fields of grass, under a sky so blue that it hurts to look
at it. The sun, warm on the back of my neck as I go faster, and faster, and faster. Until I’m no longer running. I’m airborne.

I open my eyes.

Just in time to see the metal pole swing out from behind the corner and slam into my chest.

For a second I really am airborne, lying prone in mid-air. I crash to the ground, my bones feeling like they’re going to vibrate out of my skin. I try to scream,
but all I can manage are thick, wheezing gasps.

The one with the pole is just a fuzzy black blur; he twirls
the weapon in his hand, like he’s out for a stroll. Another spasm of pain crackles across my chest, and I begin to cough: a deep, hacking, groaning noise that causes the pain to spread to my abdomen.

“Good hit,” says a voice from the left. There’s laughter from somewhere else, behind him.

Then there are six of them looking down on me. More Lieren – different from the ones who were chasing me. I cough again, even worse this time, like there’s a dagger in my chest.

The one that hit me looks around nervously. I glimpse a dark red wolf tattoo on his neck. “Come on,” he says, looking back down the passage. “Get her pack.”

Someone wedges a boot under the small of my back and flips
me over, forcing another cough out of my body. A foot on the back of my neck slams me into the floor before two others take my arms, yanking them backwards and sliding my backpack off.

My mind is racing. There should have been other people in this corridor by now. I can’t be the only person here. Even if they didn’t intervene, they might be the distraction I need to get away. And how did the
Lieren set this ambush in the first place? They were behind me. I only came this way because the catwalk was blocked, and I had to …

Oh. Oh, that’s clever. The group of girls on the catwalk. They were sent directly into my path, either paid or forced to do what the Lieren wanted. They knew they weren’t fast enough to catch me, so they funnelled me right to them. I’ve run cargo to the Air Lab
before – they’d know the routes I take, where I’d go and what I’d do when I was chased. Played like a fool, Riley.

“Anything else we can get? Her jacket?” I hear one of them say. Anger shoots through me; if they take my dad’s jacket, I’ll kill them. Every one of them.

“Nah, it’s a piece of shit. The cargo’ll be enough.”

They yank the pack off and force me back down. Someone reaches into my
jacket pockets and grabs the batteries. The boot is lifted off my back. I raise my head and see the kid with the pole tossing a battery up and down, a weird little grin on his face. He has my pack dangling from his other hand, and he and the other five are already moving away.

I push myself to my feet, chest aching with the effort, forcing myself to stay silent. I gain my balance, then start
towards them, shifting onto the balls of my feet to lower the noise in the cramped corridor. Quick steps.

It’s the one with my pack I’m after, and at the very moment he realises I’m behind him, I bring my right hand up in a lunging strike. I’ve balled my hand into a fist, with the knuckle of my index finger protruding slightly, and I’m aiming right for the base of his skull. Amira’s tried to
teach me about pressure points before, but this is the first time I’ve ever had to put it into practice.

My strike is true, hitting the tiny pocket of flesh where the skull joins the spine, and I feel something under my fist crack. He makes a strangled sound, and flies forward, my pack falling from his hand.

I have about half a second to appreciate my victory. Then one of his friends steps forward
and socks me in the eye so hard that I just go somewhere else for a while.

When I come back – seconds later? Minutes? – I’m pushed up against the corridor wall, two of the Lieren holding me in place. My face is numb, and there’s blood in my mouth; I can taste the metallic edge, sharp and nasty. The one I attacked is still out on the ground. As I watch, he groans, twitching under the flickering
lights.

The Lieren with the wolf tattoo is standing in front of me, rearing back for another hit. If this one connects, it’s goodbye Riley.

He throws the punch. I wrench my head to the side, and his fist slams into the metal wall, sending a resonant clang rattling around the corner. He pulls it back with a cry of pain. A flap of skin hangs off his middle finger, blood already welling up around
the edges of the wound. His buddies relaxed their grip in surprise for a moment when I dodged, but not enough for me to break free, and now they force me back against the wall. “She’s got some fight in her,” growls one.

Tattoo is holding his wrist and shaking his hand back and forth. “You missed,” I say. “Can’t even hit someone standing still, can you?”

“Is that right?” he says, wiping his mouth
with his uninjured hand.

“Yeah. Maybe you have these guys let me loose, and we go a few rounds. You and me. See who’s faster.”

“Think so? You’re kind of small for a tracer. What are you, fifteen?”

“Twenty,” I spit back, instantly regretting it.

“She’s ugly, too,’ says one of the Lieren holding me. “Like some nuke mutant from back on Earth.”

“Maybe she’s got some cousins down there right now.
New life forms.”

There’s laughter, cruel and sharp. I try to keep my voice calm. “Listen to me,” I say. “That cargo is going to Oren Darnell. I’m under his protection in Gardens. If you take my cargo, you’ll have to answer to him.”

“The hell is Oren Darnell?” says the one holding my left shoulder.

“Don’t you know anything?” says the Lieren with the tattoo. “He’s in charge of the Air Lab.” But
no fear crosses his face – instead, he looks amused, still flicking his wrecked hand. Not good.

“He’s got gang connections,” I say. “Death’s Head. Black
Hole Crew. You sure Zhao would want you to jack cargo going in their direction?”

I’m half hoping that mentioning the name of Zhao Zheng, the leader of the Lieren, would have some effect. But Tattoo just laughs. “Rumours, honey. That’s all there
is to it.”

“It’s the truth. I …”

And then Tattoo pulls out a knife, and the words die on my lips.