Falling Sky (33 page)

Then we're in the trenches. And it's only a matter of time before someone finds us. Or before one of the people inside feels that they need a piss and walks out. So I drop the guard (which is a relief since he feels pretty heavy on my bad arm) and I begin stripping his clothing. Not all of it. But the coverings that matter. The ones people use as identifiers. And I put them on.

The fur smells, but there's nothing doing for that. I strip off a dull metal necklace, some wrist bracelets. And make sure to wrap the semiautomatic around my chest. I hope they'll be enough to disguise me.

Claudia jogs up a moment later and begins doing the same with the other man. He has a full face mask with only the eyes cut out. It's good and bad. It covers her face, but it leaves her eyes free. And that could be a problem. That kind of get-up draws attention to the eyes. And Claudia's are bright blue. And her scar is visible. But there's nothing else to do.

Then there are only the bodies to deal with. We each grab ours and drag them to a nearby alley and shove them in the shadows as best we can.

Then, assuming our best swagger, and wearing the guards' semiautomatics, we move to the door.

Claudia and I have this all worked out. She stands outside while I open the door and go in.

A man looks up from where he's sitting at a table. “What are you doing here?” he says. I catch a glimpse of gray hair and a grizzled, curly beard.

I walk up to him without stopping and say, “There's a bit of a problem.” His eyes are on me. So he doesn't see the door open and Claudia step to the opening.

I spin the man around and Claudia puts an arrow through the back of his neck. I see it erupt from his throat. See the spray of blood, hear the choking rasp he makes as he falls to the ground.

There's no one else in the room. Just a door in a makeshift wall, and I move to that.

“I got the door covered,” Claudia says.

I nod. There's no time to stop. No time to think. The room stinks of death and we only have minutes to make sure everything goes right.

I open the door, and the smell in the next room is worse. It smells of blood, too, but stale blood. And sweat. Of shit and urine. And it's enough like a Feral nest that it's all I can do to stop myself from jerking out my revolver.

There are two people in the room, but only one of them is moving.

He's standing, and as he turns to me, his eyes wide in surprise, I notice that he's carrying a knife, too.

It would be so easy to shoot him, I think in that second. But that's not an option. And the knife is in my hand and we dance.

He comes at me, his knife out, and slashes at me, and it's then I realize my mistake. The semiautomatic is still slung around my body and it slows me down. I duck away, but the knife slices across my chest, cutting through my jacket and shirt and carving a line of fire through my skin.

I swing at him, but the man pulls back. He's strangely bared, I notice. No real coverings, just a short-sleeved shirt splattered with blood and wet with sweat. Less to cut through, I think.

He reverses his knife in a back-hand grip. He's used to this kind of weapon. He holds it like you might hold your hand. As part of your body. And I'm much better with guns.

His stance is easy, light. He practically glides across the ground, like a snake. I feel like a lumbering cow.

He comes at me again, and I raise the semiautomatic just in time to catch the knife then thrust up with my knee, aiming for his groin, but I only catch his thigh.

His next attack cuts the gun from my shoulder and it clatters to the floor.

He comes at me again.

I follow the gun.

Somehow it gets caught in my feet and I go down and he's on top of me, the knife driving down, and I throw up my hands to stop it. Still, a good inch of the tip digs into my side.

I throw my legs at him and push him to the side.

My arm whips out and my knife slides against the ground and into something soft.

Something happens to my mind in that moment. I'm tired, I hurt, and all my nerves are raw and close to the surface. But that moment of victory sparks some kind of bloodlust in me. I feel my lips curl back from my teeth in some kind of sick smile.

I roll over onto him and bring the knife back. A kind of wild fury fills me and I bring it down.

Then he head-butts my wound, and the world blanks out in pain. He twists my wrist, and the knife falls away from me. Then he throws me to the side and I fall off of him.

There's this voice in my head that starts screaming at me to get up and I do, somehow finding my feet through the pain and disorientation.

And I go for my gun. The only thing I know to reach for. The only thing I know to kill my enemies.

He comes up, back in his light stance, the knife still there, an extension of him. I can fire at him. I have the range. I have the thunder. But I know it'll give us away and I know the figure slumped in the chair is Diego. Only I can't focus on him right now. My eyes are on my opponent.

He raises his chin. Daring me to fire at him. Instead, I drop my guard. He moves in. I drop my shoulder and pivot, bringing the revolver around, my finger on the trigger guard, my grip firm. He cuts me, somewhere near my bullet wound, and the pain threatens to blank me out again, but I am now a machine. An engine. And there's no stopping the movement. My hand comes around and the pistol slams into the side of his head.

We both go down.

I'm aware of only two things—my hand and, by extension, the pistol and his head. And I bring the two together. As hard as I can. Once. Twice. Again. Again.

I think of Diego. And Miranda. Mostly Miranda.

I am a machine. The pieces move of their own accord. Back and forth. Back and forth.

A voice breaks me from the cycle. “Ben.”

Then again. “Ben.”

I look up at Claudia. Then look down to see the ruin that is the knife fighter's face.

“I think he's dead,” Claudia says.

I nod. Regain myself. Then I climb unsteadily to my feet, wincing as every fiber in my body screams at me.

We both turn to look at Diego. He's slumped in a chair, his arms and legs bound behind him. There are cuts all over his body. Burns. Blood. They've tortured him.

His face is as much a ruin as that of the man I just killed. He's almost unidentifiable below the bruises and dried, crusted blood. His head slumps down over his chest. He's out. Which, from the looks of what has happened to him, must be a mercy.

I walk over to him. Claudia starts untying his bonds. He doesn't stir. I slap him lightly on the face, afraid that if I hit him any harder he might start bleeding all over me.

“Diego,” I say. “It's okay. We're here.”

He still doesn't stir. Claudia hands me a water bottle and I splash some on his face. Some more gentle shaking causes his eyelids to flutter.

“Diego,” I repeat. “It's me. Ben. We came to get you.”

He looks up at me through his swollen eyes. I'm not sure he's seeing me. “Ben?” he says.

“Yes. We came to get you out.”

“Ben . . .”

“It's okay,” I say. “Rosie's okay. She's going to take you back home.”

“No,” he says.

“It's okay,” I say again. “You're safe now.”

“They . . . they tortured me,” he says through swollen lips, his voice a croak.

“I know,” I say. “But that's all over now.”

“No. You don't realize. I told them.”

“Told them what?” I say.

He chokes and shakes his head and we almost lose him again. I put the water bottle to his lips and let him take a sip.

“What did you tell them, Diego?”

“I tried to stop,” he says. “I tried. But . . .”

“What did you tell them?”

He looks at me through his swollen face.

“I told them where Tamoanchan is.”

Together, Claudia and I help carry Diego out of the warehouse and out into Gastown. I have to hope we aren't going to be discovered. All it would take would be a shift change for the guards to throw our whole plan into disarray. Another two guards with the kind of weapons they carry could take us down in an instant. Claudia and I can't reach our weapons, laden as we are.

Diego seems to regain some of his strength as the cold wind hits him. But he keeps muttering about Tamoanchan and what he's spilled to the Gastown people. By now I've signaled to Rosie to bring in the
Osprey
. If everything went to plan, she set off some of the explosives I brought back from the helium plant on the opposite side of Gastown. The hope is it will draw attention there while we get Diego out on this side. Rosie's not going to be happy about the condition Diego's in. But there's no helping that.

I can't look away from the fact that all of this is my fault. I was the one who convinced Diego to come to Gastown. I sold him on the idea of gathering intelligence on the city when, after everything, they gathered intelligence from him. The most important intelligence of all.

All because I wanted my ship back.

And as much as I love my ship, as much as the
Cherub
is all that I have in the world, I find myself wondering if it was all worth it.

And there's still one thing missing.

“Diego,” I say. I say it two more times before he seems to focus on me. “Diego, what happened to Miranda?”

It takes him a moment to respond. As if he's trying to place the name.

“She wasn't . . . I didn't see her. She wasn't with me when they took me.”

“Did she get away?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I don't know.”

Damn, I think. We still don't know where she is. And even if she wasn't taken, she's somewhere in Gastown. And Gastown is about to be a very dangerous place. Even more than before.

“She'll be okay,” Claudia says to me, over Diego's body. “If she got clear, she found a place to hide. If they got her, she would have been in there with him.”

I cling to her words, wanting to believe them. But I'm not sure I do. Until I see Miranda with my own eyes, I won't believe any of this. I won't believe she's safe. I won't believe she's not dead.

Oh God, I think. Don't be dead, Miranda. Don't be dead.

Claudia gives me a look that makes me feel like I'm not completely in control of myself, but she doesn't say anything.

We half-carry, half-drag Diego over to where we told Rosie to meet us. It's a platform off the eastern side of Gastown. A commercial platform. The hope is that it's not occupied. That no one will be there at this time of night.

When we get there, the
Osprey
is already within sight. I get on the radio telling Rosie to find somewhere to dock. Diego's not going to be able to climb up the ladder. We're going to have to carry him inside.

Luckily, there's a little part of the dock that allows for Rosie to bring the
Osprey
in. A balloon is anchored there, giving the ship's envelope room to descend.

She opens the gondola door for us, and we carry Diego onboard. “They barely noticed me,” she says. Then she sees Diego. “What the hell?”

“They were torturing him,” I say.

“Oh my God.”

“He's alive, though. He's beat-up, but he'll live. They weren't trying to kill him.”

She gives me a look that makes me feel like the biggest asshole in the world. His body will escape with only scars, but his mind . . .

“It's worse than that,” I say. “He told them where Tamoanchan is.”

“What?”

“They put him through the gauntlet. He spilled. Any of us would have.”

“Goddamn it.”

“They'll be headed for the island.

Her face betrays her horror. “What do we do?”

“You take him and you make for Tamoanchan. But take a wide course. If the Gastown ships are headed there, you don't want to pass them. Not alone. And you need to keep your brother safe.”

“But all those people . . .”

“You take care of Diego. Claudia and I will do what we can to stop the raiders.”

Claudia gives me a look as if to say, What the hell are we going to do? but I silence her with my eyes. Or at least I think I do.

“The
Cherub
is fast. I think I can catch up to them.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Rosie says.

“Whatever I can,” I say. “If you get to Tamoanchan before they do, do what you can to get people out. Radio ahead if you can. Do what you can to evacuate.”

“We'll never make it,” she says.

I grab her and meet her eyes. “We're not going down without a fight. Any of us. Take your brother and get underway. Now.”

She takes Diego, slinging his arm around her shoulder. “This is all your fault,” she says. “We wouldn't even be here without you. You and your goddamned ship.”

I don't say anything. What can I say?

“Godspeed,” Claudia says into the silence.

Then we leave the gondola, and the
Osprey
sails away into the sky.