Impact (27 page)

They carry me off the bridge. I try and stop them, kicking and thrashing, screaming at them to let me go. It doesn't do any good. My hands are still cuffed, and while Ray holds my upper body, Iluk wraps his huge arms around my legs, pinning them together. My eyes keep being drawn back to Okwembu, like light getting sucked into a black hole.

Iluk lets go when we reach the bottom of the stairs. Ray lifts me up, spins me around and slams me back against the wall. I bang my head, sending flickering sparks across the edge of my vision. My face is numb, and the ache in my stomach is rolling up through my body.

“You got a choice,” Ray says. “You can go to the stern as you are, or you can go there with broken arms. Your call.”

I stop struggling. There's got to be a way out of this, there must be, but I won't be able to act on it if I'm crippled. After a few moments, I raise my chin then give Ray a tight nod.

“All right then,” he says.

Ray drags me down the corridors, Iluk and Koji following behind us, down more flights of stairs, until eventually we reach another rectangular opening in the side of the ship. I can see white clouds through it, hanging low over the gently whispering ocean. Unlike the way we came in, there's no one else here. The space is completely empty.

Ray and Iluk drop me on the metal floor, right on the edge. There's nothing between me and the world outside.

“Maybe we shouldn't do this,” Koji says.

“One more word, Koji,” Ray says. “Just one.”

I look back, and see that Ray has a new gun.

I don't know where he got it from. It's a rifle, the wooden stock polished to a high sheen. He's loading it carefully, almost tenderly. Iluk stands with his arms folded. Koji is cowering behind him, as if he's being forced to watch.

Ray sees me looking. “Sorry. Prophet says you're gone, you're gone.” He racks the bolt. “You can die on your feet, or on your knees. I don't much care which.”

I barely register his words. There's a taste of copper in my mouth, the metallic tang of fear. My hands are shaking. The whole way down here, I was looking for anything I could use, and got nothing. Even if I somehow managed to escape, I'd still be stuck on the ship, trapped in the narrow corridors. And in the next few seconds Ray is going to put a bullet through me.

But the anger I feel is stronger than the fear. Even after everything I've been through, there's one thing that will never change. I'm a tracer–no, more than that, I'm a
Devil Dancer
, and I've come too far and fought too hard to let it end here.

Slowly, I get to one knee. Ray glances down at the gun again, and that's when I act.

I launch myself forwards, head down, leading with my shoulder. Ray sees me coming, raises the gun, but I'm moving way too fast for him. My shoulder bends his body in two, the air leaving him in an explosive rush.

Iluk is there, his hands on me, trying to push me to the floor. He's strong, much stronger than I am, and if I let him get ahold of me I'll be a static target for Ray to aim at. So I throw my head back, and feel bone shatter as it crunches against Iluk's nose.

Ray jerks the gun around, snapping the side of the barrel against my cheek. It's a glancing blow, but it's enough to knock me off balance, sending me to my knees. I twist to one side, and the gun goes off, right by my head–I feel the kick power through me, the bang slamming my ears shut.

Ray's hand goes to the bolt again, starts to pull it back. That makes him vulnerable. I use the tiny window of time it gives me, and throw myself towards him.

My hands are still cuffed in front of me. I lift them high, then bring them down on the other side of Ray's head. It looks like I'm embracing him. I rock backwards, the handcuffs digging into the back of his neck, pulling with every ounce of strength I have.

He grunts, trying to plant his feet. For a horrifying instant he feels too heavy, and I don't know if I'll be able to throw him off balance. But I'm faster than he is, and his centre of gravity is way too high. As I roll backwards, he comes with me, his weight pressing down.

His hands pull at my jacket, but I've got momentum on my side. I keep the roll going, using my thighs and abdominal muscles to transfer the energy to him. He somersaults, landing flat on his back. I look back, the world upside down suddenly, and I can see that his feet are hanging over the edge.

I roll over, pushing myself upwards with my bound hands. Koji is backing away, terrified, and Iluk is lying face down on the floor. There's a pool of blood spreading out from around his head. One of his hands is tucked under his neck, as if trying to seal the bullet wound.

Ray is up on one knee. Somehow, he's still holding the gun. He pulls the trigger, but there's no bullet in the chamber–he never got a chance to pull the bolt back before I threw him over.

Tough luck, Ray.

He curses, hands flying to the bolt. I sprint towards him, and drive my fist into his temple.

I can almost see the pressure waves moving through his flesh. He doesn't fall, but his head snaps to the side, and I feel a burst of bitter pleasure as I regain my balance. My hearing is coming back, and Ray's moan of pain is crystal-clear.

I snatch the gun away, gripping it by the top of the barrel. Then I lean back, and kick Ray in the chest.

The move disrupts my own centre of gravity, and I fall flat on my ass. It doesn't matter. Ray is in mid-air, his eyes wide with terror. A half-second later he's gone.

No time. There's still one more.

I can feel the prolonged effects of adrenaline starting to take hold, making my hands shake and my vision blur. I rock forward, launching my body upright. I'm holding the gun wrong, my hands around the barrel–and it's a big gun, heavy, my wrists already aching from keeping it up. It's useless in this position, unless I want to use it as a club. If Koji's got a weapon of his own, that decision might cost me.

There's only one thing I can do. I launch myself into a sprint, heading for one side of the opening, the gun held out in front of me. I feel the shock wave as the stock slams into the wall, but I'm ready for it, letting my hands travel down the body, twisting sideways to let the barrel slide past me. It works. My fingers find the bolt, and I have just enough grip to swing the gun, letting the stock seat itself in my stomach.

I'm already thinking ahead–I have to draw the bolt back, chamber a round, reseat my hands so I can pull the trigger, draw a bead on Koji, and fire. It's going to have to be perfect. One mistake, and he'll do to me what I did to Ray.

My hands turn sideways, catching the bolt, snapping it backwards. I feel a round enter the chamber, and I'm already hunting for the trigger guard when Koji yells out, “Wait! Don't shoot!”

I look up. He's standing a few feet away, his hands up, terror on his face. “Don't shoot,” he says again.

My finger finds the trigger. My skin is soaked with sweat, and a drop falls into my eye, blurring my vision, stinging with salt.
Aim. Aim now, while he's standing still.

“I knew John Hale,” he says. “Your father. I knew him.”

The liquid in the drum is bubbling, the metal lid clanking up and down. The sound scratches at Prakesh's eardrums.

It's taking too long. He should be smelling something by now. They all should. But there's just the loamy, thick fug of the soil, accentuated by the tang of the fertiliser.

Prakesh tells himself not to look, but does anyway. The guard is hovering near the drum, watching the reaction.

Prakesh looks back down.
It didn't work. They're going to figure it out. It's over.

At that moment, he hears the guard shouting at him.

The guard doesn't know his name. He's just shouting, “Chemistry guy!” Prakesh looks up, feeling all the blood drain from his face.

“Is it meant to smell that bad?” the guard shouts.

Slowly, Prakesh walks over. Every step feels awkward, every motion forced.

The guard watches him approach. He bangs the drum with the butt of his rifle, and it wobbles slightly on its perch. “Starting to stink. Worse than before. Is that supposed to happen?”

And that's when Prakesh smells it. The makeshift lid has kept most of it inside, but some has escaped, and it scours the inside of his nostrils.

“Let me see,” he says, stepping behind the table. His heart is pounding.

“I gotta say, though,” says the guard, “this is by far the most interesting shift I've had in a long time.” He claps Prakesh on the back. “Can't wait to eat those first tomatoes. I had one once, when I was a kid.”

Prakesh forces a smile, bending over the barrel, trying to hold his breath.

“So?” says the guard. He looks more eager than ever, almost excited, like a child getting a toy. Prakesh actually feels a little bad for what he's about to do.

“It's ready,” he says.

Then he puts a hand on the side of the drum and shoves it off the table.

The barrel crashes to the floor, spilling its contents everywhere: pale green slurry, with slimy lumps floating in it. A second later, the full force of the smell hits Prakesh.

It's as if boiling acid has been forced into his lungs. He bends double, trying to raise a hand to his nose, not quite getting there before his stomach reacts. He vomits, the liquid forcing its way out of his lungs, spraying across the floor.

The guard is vomiting, too. He was right next to the barrel, and got a full dose of the fumes.

Sulphur, ammonium sulfate, calcium hydroxide. Water. Heat.

Clunky, but effective.

Prakesh has enough presence of mind to pull himself behind a nearby crate. He gets there half a second before the shooting starts. Bullets explode off the metal floor around him. One hits the gas canister, which flies off across the floor, whirling like a child's toy.

The smell is spreading. The hangar is big, but the stench is powerful enough to penetrate every corner of it. Prakesh can hear the other guards coughing, hear them starting to heave. That sets him off again. He retches, spilling more slime onto the floor by his head. The smell is so strong that he feels like it's a living creature clamped onto his face, forcing itself down his throat.

There's nothing more he can do. He curls into a ball, his hands over his mouth and nose, and waits for it to be over.

It takes him a few moments to realise that the shooting has stopped. His ears are ringing, but the hangar is silent. No–not silent. He can hear voices now, muffled, shouting orders to one another. And soft thuds, like boots being driven into flesh.

He gets to his knees, dry-heaving. The smell has ebbed, just a little, but it's still enough to set off a coughing fit. When he looks up, wiping gunk from his lips, Jojo is standing over him, holding the bottom of his shirt to his face. The shirt is wet, soaked with urine, blocking out the smell. Prakesh sees that every other worker did the same thing, clamping wet fabric over their noses and mouths. It gave them just enough time to take down the incapacitated guards.

And all of them are dead. Prakesh can see that. Or, if they're not dead, they will be soon. His eyes fall on the one who helped him. The man's eyes are staring at nothing, blood leaking out of a massive head wound. Prakesh feels an odd sense of loss, a feeling he doesn't quite understand.

“Nnnn—” Jojo gulps twice, the wet fabric across his mouth muffling the sound. He helps Prakesh to his feet. “Not bad.”

Prakesh finds it hard to keep his balance, especially when the other workers start slapping him on the back and pulling him into massive bear hugs. Someone passes him a soaked strip of cloth–it's revolting, having to hold it up to his mouth, but it's a million times better than the smell.

For a long moment, nobody moves. The workers are looking around them, unsure, cradling the guns.

Jojo breaks the silence. “S-s-see that?” he says, pointing upwards. Prakesh follows his finger, landing on a clunky security camera bolted onto the wall. “W-we gotta mmmm-move f-fast.”

Prakesh groans, irritated that he didn't see it before. Their revolt will be noticed–assuming the camera works, there'll be reinforcements arriving at any moment.

“Y-you two–generator room,” Jojo says, pointing at the other workers. His words are muffled by the fabric. “Heard the g-g-guards t-talking about it earlier. It w-w-won't be too heavily g-g-guarded. D-D-Devi, t-take a few p-p-people w-with you and g-go and secure the b-b-b-boats.”

The workers split off from the group, charging away across the hangar.

“What's in the generator room?” Prakesh says.

“Th-th-th-the other workers. W-w-we're n-n-not gonna l-leave them here.”

Prakesh's head snaps up.
Other workers. Carver.
If he's still alive, that's where he'd be. But the moment the thought occurs, so does the memory of those fists and feet raining down on him. Prakesh desperately wants to believe he's still alive, but he knows the odds aren't good.

“What about the rest of us?” says a man behind Prakesh. “I say we take the bridge.”

“We'll never get near it,” someone else says. “Not unless our man's got another batch of those chemicals somewhere.”

“N-n-no,” says Jojo. “We c-c-c-c-can't go to the b-b-bridge. It's t-t-too heavily guarded.”

“So then what do we do?” It comes from an older woman. She's holding one of the rifles like a newborn baby.

Jojo gulps twice. “W-we blow it up.”

There's a stunned silence. “What, the bridge? Or the ship?” says the woman.

“The shhhhh-ship. We hit the f-f-f-fuel hangar, lllll-light it up. T-torch the p-p-place.”

“Jojo, that's crazy,” the woman says.

Jojo talks over her. “We g-g-get in, t-take some f-f-fuel for ourselves, then burn the r-r-rest.”

Prakesh finally finds his voice. “What about the other workers? The ones you just sent off? Shouldn't we warn them?”

“They know how to get to the b-boats,” Jojo says, barely glancing at him, excitement chasing away most of his stammer. “W-w-we won't leave without 'em. D-don't w-worry.”

“What do we do about weapons?” Prakesh says.

But Jojo and the rest of the workers are already heading for the hangar doors. A couple of them loose shots into the ceiling, ignoring Jojo's stuttered shouts to save ammo. Prakesh has no choice but to follow them.