Zero-G (18 page)

The blindfold is hot around my face, and my fingers are already starting to go numb from the biting pain of the cuffs. I can't stop running my tongue over my jagged tooth, and my cheek is still burning from Anton's blow.

My entire sense of balance is gone, destroyed by the blindfold. My feet are constantly tangled up, and my captors have to hold me upright to stop it happening. A few times, I really do start to fall – my stomach lurching as my centre of gravity topples – and they have to pull me back.

I don't know how long we walk for, or where we go. For a while, Anna and Carver are alongside me – I hear them spit the occasional curse as they, too, struggle for balance – but after a while they go silent. My imagination runs away from me: maybe we've been split up, our captors taking us to different places so they can break us individually.

Whoever they are.

My legs are burning. It's been a long time since I took any pills, and the stitches have become hot lines, flipping back and forth between bright sting and maddening itch.There's nothing I can do. I try to ignore the burning, pushing other thoughts to the front of my mind.
Prakesh
. He's never felt further away than he is now. At least he's safe – I don't like that he's sealed away, but the Air Lab is a lot less chaotic than it is out here.

After a while, the sound around me changes – it feels muted somehow, like we've moved away from the main body of the station. I start to hear other noises – people shouting orders, the clanking of machinery. A few minutes later, we come to a stop. The noises have got louder now – it's as if I'm in an enormous factory. Every muscle in my body feels ready to collapse.

“What do we do with her?”

“Take the blindfold off. I don't think it matters now.”

I feel the material being unwrapped, light slipping in as the layers come off, and when the last one falls away I have to squint against blinding overhead lights. My eyes fill with tears, and, as I blink them back, I see Carver standing alongside me. His blindfold is being pulled off, too. Anna is being brought up behind us. Okwembu is there as well, her hands clasped behind her.

I look around, and my mouth falls open.

We're in one of the old mineral-processing facilities, where they bring asteroid slag and turn it into something useable. There are dozens of these places across the lower sectors, so it's impossible to figure out the exact location. Smelting kilns line the walls, bracketing enormous centrifuges. They'll spring to life when the
Shinso Maru
comes in, delivering its asteroid cargo. The space construction corps will break it down, and the tugboats will bring the pieces in to be turned into slag, which will be processed to get the minerals out. The asteroids are our building material, our fertiliser, our chemicals.

A metal frame for holding heavy equipment runs around the walls of the rectangular room, reaching to a ceiling that must be sixty feet up. Right above us, I can see a smaller gantry, a set of tracks with what looks like a miniature train car on it, just as high up but with a tangle of cables hanging down from the body. The cables end in a shredded mess of torn wires.

The place makes me think of Big 6. Same energy, same movement. There must be more than fifty people – men, women, children, entire families. Everybody is moving, everybody is doing something: shifting crates, wheeling pallets of equipment. Even the kids.

A few people glance in our direction, but nobody pays much attention to us. Off to one side, a group of them stand around a table, checking weapons. There are homemade stingers, more than I've ever seen before. Other weapons, too: long metal tubes, lined up alongside a strange type of ammo, black and squat. As I watch, one of them hefts the tube onto his shoulder, as if to aim it.

Resin has sucked Outer Earth dry of life, but it's like this one little room has managed to fight it off – to stay alive in all the chaos. I don't see anybody sick. It's like they're preparing for something, a journey maybe.

Or an invasion.

I glance over to the man holding my left arm. He's pulled down the cloth over his face, and I can see that he's not as old as I thought he was. Stubble coats his face, but the eyes above it are young – a bright, anxious blue.

I wriggle my arms. “Any chance you could take the cuffs off? I can't feel my hands.”

He shakes his head. “Sorry.”

“How about some water, then? We could really use a drink.”

He seems about to respond, but then he suddenly snaps to attention. I feel the other man holding me do the same, jerking me more upright.

Mikhail is walking towards us.

They must have sprung him from the brig. He looks less gaunt, his prison jumpsuit exchanged for a dark blue jacket and pants over a patched, untucked cotton shirt. His hair has been swept back, pulled into a neat ponytail, and he's wiped the grime off his face. He stands erect, too, with the bearing of a ship's captain. Something about it bothers me, and it takes me a second to realise why: it's the same posture my father had, before he left on the Earth Return mission. Straight-backed, chin up, daring the world to test him.

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. “We meet again,” he says, his eyes finding mine.

The words sound odd in his mouth, as if he read them somewhere and is trying them on for size. I want to ask him about Resin – about why nobody here is sick, and what they're preparing for.

The man with the blue eyes jogs my shoulder. “They're just stompers. We should—”

Mikhail silences him with a look.

“If you're thinking we're going to help you break into Apex,” Carver says, “then you need to think a lot harder.”

Mikhail glances at Carver. He takes a step closer, and I feel the grip on my shoulders tighten. “I'm going to give you a few minutes to think about what you wish to contribute to our cause. I would think hard, if I were you. Hisako can be very persuasive.”

He holds Carver's gaze a moment longer, then turns away, looking towards Okwembu. “You,” he says. “My colleagues tell me you were a computer programmer. Before you joined the council.”

It's an odd thing to say, out of place in the current circumstances. Okwembu barely blinks. “I was,” she says.

“What operating systems did you train in?”

“Operating systems?”

“When you were at the academy.”

Okwembu frowns. “Ellipsis. Deep-OS. But those are outdated systems. I don't see what—”

Her eyes go wide. She stares at Mikhail, understanding dawning.

Not that it helps the rest of us. The names mean nothing to me. I look round at Carver, but he's just shaking his head, as confused as I am.

“You're going
back
to Earth,” Okwembu says, her voice filled with wonder.

Mikhail smiles. “And we need the
Shinso Maru
to do it. You're going to deliver that ship to us, whether you want to or not.”

He's talking about the asteroid catcher, the one currently in orbit around the station. And with Resin out there, they'll never have a better opportunity to take it. The pieces are starting to slot into place. The
Shinso Maru
is one of the oldest ships we have. It's a dinosaur, a relic, something that should have been replaced decades ago.

Those operating systems – they must be what the ship runs on. Somehow, these people are going to use Okwembu to gain access to the ship.

“Why me?” Okwembu says. “There must be dozens of people who can use Ellipsis.”

“There aren't. We've looked. If there's anyone around who still knows how to use it, we can't find them. Dead or missing, we don't know.” He shrugs.

“This is…” Carver says, trailing off.

“But I don't understand,” Okwembu says. “We've run data on Earth before. There's nothing down there any more.”

Mikhail doesn't answer her, and she bows her head, as if thinking hard. Then she composes herself, locking eyes with Mikhail.

“I'm done with this station,” she says, and it's impossible not to hear the bitterness in her voice. “It doesn't want to be saved.”

“So you'll help us?” says Mikhail. He sounds wary, like he's expecting a trick. Like it shouldn't be this easy.

“Gladly,” Okwembu says. She cocks her head. “Tell me about Earth. Tell me what you've found.”

Mikhail turns to the men holding us. “Get them out of here.”

“Hey!” says Anna. But we're hustled away, marched off as Okwembu and Mikhail huddle together. Someone is working with a plasma cutter above us, and, as we pass underneath, sparks prickle my face.

None of this makes any sense. They can't use the
Shinso
for re-entry. It's got no heat shielding, nothing that'll stop it from burning up in the atmosphere. And even if they make it down, how are they going to survive? We
know
Earth is a dead shell: a world of dust storms and frozen wastelands. That's why my father went down there in the first place – to see if he and his crew could make a part of the planet habitable again.

But he didn't succeed. The mission was a failure. So why does Mikhail think humans will be able to survive down there? What have he and his people found?

I want to talk to Carver, see if he can help me figure this out, but he's too far ahead of me.

My eyes are drawn to something at the back of the room – two people, hunched over a machine of some kind. At first, I think it must be a bomb – my mind kicking into overdrive – but then I see it's something else. There are old-fashioned screens on it, displaying odd shapes, like spiky blots of ink. And there's a keyboard, jutting out from the main body. There are two antennae on top, swaying gently. Before I get a better look, the machine is out of sight.

Another piece of the puzzle, and I have no idea where it fits.

Our captors march us to a corner of the room. Carver, Anna and I are shoved up against the wall, our faces are pressed into it. The men spin us around, then push us down. My bound hands are cramping behind me, sending little darts of pain up my arms. Anton is watching us, sitting on a nearby crate, his stinger resting on his knee.

Carver's brow furrows. “I don't get it,” he says, more to himself than to us. “There's no heat shielding on that thing.”

“I know,” I say. “They'll never make it.”

“What's happening?” Anna says. “Why are they talking about old computer systems?”

Carver shrugs. “It's for the
Shinso
. But they'll burn up before they get halfway down. Why do you think nobody's…”

He stops. There's the strangest look on his face.

“What is it?” I say.

“The asteroid. That's genius.”

Anna glances at me. “Do you understand a single thing he's saying?”

“They're going to use the asteroid as a heat shield,” Carver says, his voice filled with wonder. “They're going to ride it all the way down.”

“Is that even possible?” Anna says.

“In theory,” Carver replies. “Something's gotta burn up. If they can go down asteroid first, then that's what'll catch fire.”

“That's insane,” I say.

“Hey,” says Anton. Our voices must have risen, and he's looking over sharply at us. Carver subsides, shifting his shoulders to stop his bound hands hurting.

“What makes them think they can go back?” I say, barely speaking above a whisper. “What do they know that we don't?”

Carver shrugs. “Beats me.”

Anna leans in. “But if they've figured out a way to survive on Earth, why haven't they taken it to the council? Why do they need to
hijack
the asteroid catcher?”

Carver grimaces. “Because we can't fit the entire station into the
Shinso
's escape pods.”

We stare at him.

“Think about it,” he says. “They can use the asteroid as a heat shield, but they'll still be travelling a billion miles an hour. They'll never be able to land the ship. Their only shot is to bail out.”

Of course
. Asteroid catchers have escape pods, but there aren't that many of them. They're designed to carry the small crew of the asteroid catcher, maybe a few more. You could get everybody left on Outer Earth onto an asteroid catcher, but only a few of them would make it to the ground. These people – Mikhail and Anton and the rest of them, along with Okwembu now – are just putting themselves at the front of the queue.

“Earthers,” Carver whispers.

“What?”

“That's what we should call them. They want to get back to Earth, right? So they're Earthers.”

Anton's become bored. He's still sitting on his crate, but he's fiddling with his stinger, slipping the clip in and out with a rhythmic clicking. Our legs aren't bound, but there's no way we're going to slip past him.

Anna sees me looking. “If we're going to get out of here, we need to get these cuffs off,” she says, keeping her voice low. She shakes her shoulders, frustrated with the bonds. “See anything?”

I look around, hunting for something we can use. Might as well try and teleport away – there are no tools within reach, no scissors or knives we could use. Not that Anton would let us try anyway.

I lean over a little too far to my right, and overbalance. I almost fall on my side, only just managing to pull myself back. As I do, I catch sight of the wall.

It's made up of interlocking metal panels. The panels are old, dented, and the edge of the nearest one is bent outwards a little. It's not sharp, but it's rough and rusted.

I scoot across, lifting my backside up to move myself along. Anton is still tinkering with his stinger.

“Riley,” Carver says from behind me. “What are you doing?”

I push my back up against the edge, my bound wrists against it.

“Using friction,” I mutter.

I brace myself, and begin moving my arms up and down, sawing the zip tie against the edge as fast as I can.

“
Really?
” says Carver.

Anton looks up.

I freeze. My wrists are still tightly bound. I can feel his eyes on me.
He's going to see you've moved. It's over.

Anton grimaces, as if our presence offends him. He goes back to his stinger.

I keep sawing, trying to go as fast as I can without making too much noise. I grit my teeth as the spot between my wrists heats up. As I do so, the zip tie snaps. Blood rushes back into my hands, pins and needles dancing under the skin.

“You're crazy,” Carver says. It comes out as a hissed whisper.

“It's our only shot.”

Anna is shaking her head. “Shot is what we'll be, if we go through with this.”

Anton is picking something out of his teeth now. There's no point doing this slowly. If I'm going to take him down, I have to cross the gap before he can call for help. A pressure-point strike should do it. Right on the back of the neck.

The pins and needles swell, shooting up my forearms. I grit my teeth, flexing my fingers, waiting until the pain subsides. I don't know what's worse: the pain, or making myself wait.

Thirty seconds goes by. I get my legs under me, get up on one knee. Anton still hasn't noticed.

“Riley,” Carver hisses again.

I spring forward, rocketing to my feet. I'm trying to stay quiet, but Anton looks up almost immediately. His eyes widen, and I see him raising the stinger, lifting it towards me, his mouth opening to cry out.

But I'm way, way too fast for him. I cross the gap in seconds, whipping my right fist around in a long arc, driving it into the back of his neck, aiming for the pressure point.

It doesn't work.

Anton squawks in surprise, clapping his free hand to his neck, toppling off the crate, upending it and spilling its contents. Soil explodes across the ground with a muted hiss. Anton is already getting to his feet, already trying to bring the gun around. I don't give him the chance. I dart forward, driving a knee into his chest. He coughs, hot air blasting into my face. Then I roll off him, and swing my hand a second time into the back of his neck, following it up with a jab to his throat. Nerves and oxygen – shut down.

It disables Anton completely. His eyes roll back, his body twitching.

I lie next to him, breathing hard, waiting for him to move again. He doesn't.

A hand shoots into view, so suddenly that I almost lash out at it. It's Carver – he pulls me to my feet. The world tilts sideways for a second, the blood rushing back to my head. Anna is working on her bonds, sweat beading her forehead as she burns through them on the metal.

Her wrists snap apart. She doesn't waste time, jumping to her feet, and gesturing at us to hurry. Carver pulls me along – I have to blink a few times to get the world to stay put. I glance down at Anton, still on the ground. He's breathing – shallow and irregular, but it's there. A thin line of drool has leaked out of his mouth, staining the floor.

I glance at the overturned crate. It wasn't just filled with soil – there are tiny plants dotted in the debris, half grown, each one sprouting immature bean pods.

My stomach rumbles. We should get out of here while we're still alone, but none of us has eaten for hours, and, if we do make it out, we're going to need food. Working quickly, I strip the beans from the plants, stuffing them into my pockets.

“No time,” Carver says.

“Just a second,” I say, grabbing another handful of beans.

“We gotta
go
.”

We run. We're in the shadow of the kilns now, slipping from one to the other in short bursts. My heart is firmly lodged in my throat. When we reach the end of the line of kilns, I have to stop, just for a second. There are crates stacked here, lined up on wheeled pallets. How are they planning to get this – all of this – onto the
Shinso
?

“Where's the exit?” I say to Carver.

But he's not looking at me. Instead, he's looking back down the line of kilns. Where a child is standing, staring at us. A young girl, frozen in mid-step.

Everything stops. Even the noise from the crowd fades away.

The girl opens her mouth. I can see her getting ready to scream, can feel Carver tense alongside me. But then she tilts her head, her eyes narrowed, looking right at me. “You're the lady who blew up her dad.”

My eyes go wide. It's Ivy. The girl from the Caves.

“That's right,” Anna says, giving Ivy a radiant smile. “She's the lady who blew up her dad. I'm her friend Anna, and he's Aaron. It's nice to meet you.”

The girl nods, as if all of this was the most normal thing in the world. “I got bored with the grown-ups,” she says, rocking back and forth on her heels. She stops, looks from me to Anna, then back again.

There's a yell, over from where we were sitting against the metal sheeting. Anton. His voice is hoarse, but unmistakeable.
Shit
. I should have squeezed harder, knocked him out properly.

I turn back to Ivy, on the verge of telling her to run as fast as she can, when the first of them comes around the crates. He starts to yell, a noise which is cut off as Carver jabs him hard in the throat. He goes down, heaving, banging his head on the side of the opened crate as he does so. It overbalances, then topples off the pallet, spraying more soil across the floor.

Ivy is pushing up against the wall. I'm not sure what's open wider: her mouth or her eyes. More running feet, charging towards us. They'll be on us in seconds. And they're coming from
both
directions – from where we were up against the metal sheeting, and from over by the entrance. Hemmed in by the crates and the kilns, we're in a bad place to run from.

Anna is in a half-crouch, one hand hovering over the floor, outstretched fingers just touching it. “We split up,” she says. “Go in three different directions.”

“Won't work,” Carver says. “Too many of them.”

Anton comes round the corner.

His face is pale, the skin on his throat a blotchy red. But he's awake, and angry. He's at the head of a pack, all of them armed with lengths of lead pipe or small blades. In a few seconds, they're going to be on top of us.

So I do the only thing I can think of doing.

I drop to one knee in front of Ivy, and put a hand on her cheek. Her skin is smooth under my touch, as warm as a kiss.

“Honey,” I say. “We're going to play a game. OK? No matter what happens, remember it's just a game.”

Before she can react, I scoop her up, hoisting her to shoulder height. I wrap my left arm around her neck, pushing her throat into the crook of my arm, just like I did with Anton.

Then I pull tight.