Falling Sky (32 page)

I rushed back for the front door, kicked free the wooden block that held it open. Then I grabbed Claudia, still in shock, and pulled her back to our original apartment. Then I closed that door behind her and got her onto the bed in the bedroom.

The blanket was thick with dust, but I pulled that off and put her down on the sheets beneath. Already blood was soaking into the white. “Water,” I said. I pulled free my bottle of water and, holding her down, splashed it over her face.

She gasped, but in that moment I could see that her eye appeared okay. A moment later, the blood had welled up from her cuts.

“Is it bad?” she said. She was gasping and kind of whimpering, but no more than that.

“It's bad, but your eye's okay, thank God.”

“You'll need thread,” she said.

“Oh shit.”

“See if you can find some.”

“Oh shit.”

The miracle of that day was that I found some. And a needle. So I threaded it and stood over her. And paused.

A Feral had cut her. I had been so concerned about how she was that I hadn't stopped to realize. A Feral had cut her. Its nails had torn into her. It wasn't, strictly speaking, a fluid exchange. But how could we know? It was only the one strike. It didn't even get close to her. But still. A Feral.

Yet it was Claudia. A friend and the closest thing I had ever come to that notion of Love I'd read so much about in the old books. The thought of leaving her to this, of not doing something, made me frantic. I felt tears forming in my eyes.

Claudia looked up at me with her good eye, seemed to realize the same thing. “You can't touch me,” she said.

“Shut up.”

“No, you can't touch my blood.”

“You shut the fuck up,” I said.

And then it came to me. “I'll use my gloves.”

She stared at me, blood still pouring down her face.

And so I did. It didn't give me the best control, but I used the gloves and the needle and thread, and with a hairbrush handle between her teeth and about a half bottle of vodka inside her (and some for the cut), I sewed up her torn face.

She passed out somewhere between her cheekbone and her eyebrow, and after I finished I stood over her, holding a towel in place over her face. I stood (or later sat) like that for hours.

My pistol never left my other hand.

It wasn't until the next morning that Dad came back with the
Cherub
. He had to lower her almost level with us before I could get Claudia aboard. I explained to Dad what had happened. What I'd done. I expected him to be mad. If there was one thing he'd always said, it was to get as far away from Bugged-up fluids as you can. Even if you weren't sure. Even if you were covered. It was too persistent. It was too easy for the Bug to win. I was sure he was going to rip into me. Or maybe give me the silent treatment again.

Instead, he looked at Claudia, then back at me, and nodded like he understood.

For the next two days we kept a vigil by Claudia's side, switching off to take over the controls. We looked for any sign of the Bug. If she was sleeping and began to stir, I would hold the gun up to her head and question her until she said my name or began using words.

In the end, as you can already tell, she survived. She didn't have the Bug. What she did have was a nasty scar, the result of bulky gloves and a shaky hand.

I always felt bad about that. About feeling caught between the two strongest impulses I had ever felt—of my will to live facing off against my will to love. Seeing her again, even after all this time, brings all of that back.

But with the pain I'm in, I feel like this is payback. Somewhere between the knife entering and the bullet leaving, I pass out.

When I come to, my chest and shoulder are throbbing, but I appear to be patched up. “How is it?” I ask.

I hear Claudia's voice behind me. “I'd say I did a damn better job on you than you did on me,” she says.

“Well, you watched me,” I say. “You had a good example.”

She helps me up to a sitting position. “Hand me my shirt.”

“You need to rest,” she says.

“I can't,” I say. “They have Diego and they may have Miranda, and I'm not letting either of them sit in there for a moment longer than necessary.” I look to Rosie for support. “You want to go in now, don't you?”

She grits her teeth and nods.

“I suppose you're set on this?” Claudia says.

“Yes. So you better get me that Juice.”

Claudia sighs and shakes her head, but she rummages in a nearby chest and mixes me up a shot. She isn't gentle when she plunges it into my arm.

Once again it's only an instant before it starts to take effect and I feel a surge of wild energy and everything becomes hyper-sharp and clear. The pain from my chest and shoulder starts slipping away, unable to get a grip.

“Do you know where they took Diego?” I ask.

“There's really only one place where they keep people,” Claudia says. “They converted one of the larger warehouses to serve as a prison.” She looks down, then away. “Everyone else they dump down the murder hole.”

“The what?”

“There's a section of the platform they cut a hole in. People they want to make an example of, they, well, throw in.”

“Oh my God,” Rosie says.

I try to imagine plummeting to my death from up this high. It's not a pleasant thought. “There's no chance that . . .”

“No,” Claudia says. “I don't think so. They seemed to want to question Diego. He was caught poking around. They'll want to question him first.” The implication is left unsaid. Once they're through with the questioning . . .

“How many guards would you say watch this prison?”

“Probably four or more,” Claudia says.

“Okay,” I say, thinking. “Two of us will have to deal with the guards and get inside. The third will prepare our exit. Bring a ship around to ferry Diego off.”

I look at Rosie. “You'll be the exit.”

“What?”

“Claudia and I will go in and get Diego out. You bring the
Osprey
in and take him out at the closest ramp.”

“If I get clearance to leave, though, they won't let me cross over the city to get to you. The guns will take me out.”

“Then we'll just have to create some kind of diversion. Draw their attention elsewhere while you come around the city's periphery. We get Diego aboard and then you take him straight back to Tamoanchan.”

“I'd rather go in with you,” Rosie says. “Claudia can bring in the
Valkyrie
.”

I shake my head. “Sorry, Rosie, but Claudia is the best shot I've ever seen with a bow and arrow, and we're going to need that to take out the guards without alerting every thug in this place.”

Rosie's glare looks like it's going to burn through my skull.

“We need you to get Diego out. It has to be you. You take him and you sail off into the sunset and you leave us to clean up. It has to be that way.”

Rosie grits her teeth but nods.

“Good.” Then we get down to planning. Timing. Strategies. As much as you can with this sort of thing. A lot of the time it comes down to watching for a bit before you act.

So that's what we do. Claudia and I, I mean. Rosie heads off to get the
Osprey
ready and set up the distraction. I jury-rig one of Claudia's spare radios to work off a battery, which we'll take with us. When we send Rosie the signal, she'll bring the
Osprey
in and take Diego away.

The night is cold as we exit the
Valkyrie
and I'm glad for the wrappings I'm wearing. Claudia is wearing a hooded cloak that all but hides the shape of the bow slung across her back. It's something of a thrill knowing she's carrying it. I picture it in action, the perfection of it. I should have learned how to fire one, I think. And not for the first time. Me, I have the revolver and my knife. But once again this kind of operation calls for stealth and that's not my usual way of doing things. But Diego's life is at stake. And maybe Miranda's too.

My last piece of prep is overly dramatic and definitely the result of reading too many books. But, before we leave, I take out the Star of David the rabbi gave me. And, jury-rigging up a pin, I fix it to the front of my shirt, like the stories of the old lawmen of the West. My very own sheriff's star. I wonder what Miranda would think of it.

Thinking of Miranda sets my stomach twisting even worse than my wounds do. Every so often a wave of nausea hits me and I'm not sure if it's coming from one or the other. But there's no time for that, so like everything else, I push it down and press onward. There will be time to rest and reflect later. Or else there won't be.

We move through the Gastown streets. Time of day doesn't seem to matter here. People are out, still operating their stalls or just hanging out in the streets or alleys, warming themselves before fires in large metal barrels. Fire, at least, is easy to make in the Sick. There's plenty of fuel to be found if you don't mind chopping wood.

My palms start getting itchy as we move to the other side of the city. They're also shaking. But it doesn't take too steady a hand to kill a man. I should know.

Claudia is quiet, but I know this is how she is. She uses this time to focus. She used to do the same back when we were foraging together. Dad and I would chatter on, but Claudia was silent as stone. And just as hard. I realize what we're about to get ourselves into, and there's no one else I'd rather have with me right now. At least not for this kind of thing.

We stroll past the street the warehouse is on where Diego's being held. The first time we're quiet, heads down. But we look. I see two guards. Near the entrance. Nothing on top of it. I wonder if that's because of structural integrity or because the chattering of the damn patchmonkeys is too loud.

We make our way around the warehouse, walking a block or two away, then come back, playing amorous drunks. Claudia runs ahead of me, I pursue. This time we make noise. And watch again. Still just the two guards. But they're vigilant. They look up as we pass by. Their hands are steady on their guns. Semiautomatics. Ready to cut us down in a spray of bullets.

Wonderful.

We duck down the first alley we pass.

“So, just the two of them?” I say.

Claudia nods. “I couldn't see any others.” She shrugs. “I thought there would be more.”

“They probably have more inside.”

She nods again. “No way of telling until we get in there.”

“So what's the plan?” I say. “Stab and strip?”

“Can you think of anything better?”

I can't. So that's what it is.

And this is where we split up.

As I walk away, I look back to see her pulling down the bow, stringing it with her sure fingers. I can't help it. It makes me hard.

I check to make sure my knife pulls freely from its sheath. I check to make sure my hands are working well enough.

Then the fun begins.

The guards are still looking vigilant as I sway my way over to them. I make sure not to be too loud, but if I'm doing my job, they'll think I'm drunk. The worrying thing is that it's not that hard to do. My wound is wearing down my calm and my cool. But I'm committed right now. Have to see it through.

One of the guards moves forward, one hand securely on the gun grip, the other stretched out to me in a warning gesture. He is wearing an animal pelt like a short, dirty cloak. “Walk away,” he says in a firm voice.

“Huh?” I say, staying in character.

He raises the weapon and shows me its profile. “Find somewhere else to be.”

“But isn't this Tom's place?” I say. I raise my hands like I'm just harmless. Like I'm just looking for my friend, Tom. The other guard is firmly gripping his weapon now.

He's still gripping it when Claudia's arrow takes him in the head. My guard turns at the sudden crunching sound, and I draw the knife and plunge it up through his chin, grabbing his body with my other hand and lowering it, softly, to the ground.