Impact (28 page)

There's no way Koji just said what I think he said. I keep the gun pointed at him. The only sound is my breathing, harsh and hot.

“I knew your father,” he says. “I was with John Hale on the
Akua Maru
. I—”

“
Shut up.
”

I get to my feet slowly, keeping a very, very tight grip on the gun.

“Look,” Koji says, spreading his hands slowly. “My name is Koji Yamamoto. I was born on Outer Earth, in Tzevya. I was a junior officer on John Hale's crew. We crash-landed in eastern Russia eight years ago.”

This isn't possible. The
Akua Maru
was thought destroyed, lost forever. It wasn't. My father was still on Earth, and with Janice Okwembu's help, he managed to repair the ship, intending to use it to destroy a station he thought had abandoned him. We thought the rest of the ship's crew were dead.

“You're lying,” I say. But is he? How could he know any of this? How else would he know the names
John Hale
and
Akua Maru
? Could Okwembu have told him? But why would she?

“How do you know who I am?” I say.

Koji lowers his eyes. “You look just like him.”

I lift the gun a little higher, and he starts speaking more quickly. “I knew he had a daughter, but I never thought… you have his eyes. You
are
his daughter, right? Riley?”

“The
Akua
landed in eastern Russia,” I say. “That's a long, long way from here.”

He nods. “Kamchatka. Some of us survived the crash. We decided to head east, see if we could find anything. We crossed the Bering Strait, ended up here.”

“Why tell me this now? Why not say anything before?”

A pained expression crosses his face. “I was scared. All right? They would have killed me if I tried to help you.” He points to Iluk's body.

“So you wait until I'm the one with the gun,” I say. “Convenient.”

“I'm telling the truth, I swear.” He's trembling now, overcome with emotion. “I don't know what happened to your father–he wanted to stay with the ship, but if you—”

“Shut up,” I say for the second time. I have to calm my racing mind. I have to think.

Right now, it doesn't matter who Koji is, or where he came from. What matters is that he might be the only person here who could help me. There's no chance of taking Okwembu down yet–not with one gun, not when she's on the ship's bridge. But she's not the only reason I'm here.

“Uncuff me,” I say.

He gives a helpless shrug. “Ray had the key. I'm sorry.”

I bite back the frustration. Nothing I can do–I'll just have to live with it. “I'm looking for two people,” I say. “Their names are Aaron Carver and Prakesh Kumar.” I have to assume that they're alive–I almost physically recoil from the alternative.

Koji shakes his head, and I feel my stomach drop a couple of inches. “We've had some new people,” he says. “I don't know their names.”

“Tell me about these arrivals. What happens to them?”

“They get put to work. All across the ship.”

“Where?”

Sweat is trickling down his face. “All over. Depends on what needs doing. But the closest is probably the generator room. We've been having some power problems, so—”

“Take me there,” I say. “Right now.”

I make him go first, keeping my gun up, ignoring the burn in my cuffed hands. We're almost at the corridor entrance when he says, “Wait. You need to give me the gun.”

“Are you serious?”

“You don't understand,” he says, licking his lips. “What do you think is going to happen if someone sees you marching
me
at gunpoint?”

“They'll do nothing. Because if they do, I'll shoot you.” The words sound hollow, even to me.

“You think they care?” Koji shakes his head. “If we're going to find your friends, then you're going to have to trust me.”

“Why should I?” I say.

“Because—” He stops, looks away. “Because I owe your father. I owe him everything.”

I don't move.

“Please,” he says.

My finger tightens on the trigger.

Then slowly, very slowly, I pass him the gun. I'm already visualising the angles, anticipating what he'll do. The moment he brings the gun around, I can swing my hands into the side of the barrel, knock it away, then shoulder-charge him, which should—

But he holds the gun as if it's an unexploded bomb, keeping it pointed at the floor. He tries a smile, but it's gone before it can fully form.

We resume our walk down the corridor. Every so often, Koji will tell me to turn left or right, directing me deeper into the ship. He's visibly trembling, trying to look everywhere at once. It's hard to imagine someone like him surviving in this place.

“How did you end up here, anyway?” I say.

“Me and two of the crew–Dominguez and Rogers,” Koji says. “We left the crash site. Rogers, she… she didn't make it.”

He goes silent for a moment. Then he says, “There was this radio message. Talking about food and shelter.”

“I've heard it.”

“It was a lie. Obviously. I got put to work like everyone else.”

“But you're not a worker any more.”

“No. I figured out what the Engine—”

At that moment, a shape blocks out the light from the passage above us. Koji swears quietly, not looking up. I keep my gaze on the corridor ahead.

Footsteps descend the stairs behind us. “Hey,” a voice calls out.

Neither of us responds–I'm waiting for Koji to say something, but he stays silent.

“Hey,” says the voice again, louder this time, and now it's accompanied by heavy footsteps, clumping down the corridor behind us.

Koji looks round. “Just bringing her to the work detail at the generators,” he says, nodding at me.

I keep my eyes on the floor. The man is wearing thick work boots, much too big for him, as if he took them from somebody else.

“Where's Ray?” says the man, his voice gruff.

Koji shrugs. “Probably with Iluk somewhere.”

“Go find them. Something's happened in the farm, we need every available…”

He trails off. I flick my eyes upwards, and that's when I recognise him. Sandy hair, red face. He was on the bridge when I was brought in, and I can see recognition sparking to life in his eyes, see the yell forming on his lips.

The cleaner air outside the hangar is like a splash of cold water. Prakesh takes a huge breath, letting the strip of urine-soaked cloth fall to the floor.

The workers push through a door ahead of him, exploding out of the corridor into a larger space. It's an old weapons bay–there are empty racks everywhere, running floor to ceiling, some of them still carrying ancient ordnance, their labels cracked and faded. Computers line the wall, the screens black and dead.

By the time Prakesh gets there, the gunfire has started.

There are at least two guards, firing from behind one of the racks. Prakesh hits the ground, going down hard. He has no weapon, nothing to protect him. All he can do is stay down. The gunshots are deafening.

One of the workers takes a bullet, his arm almost torn from his shoulder. He collapses onto the floor, twitching, and Prakesh sees that it's the man who wanted to take the bridge. He pushes himself away, rolling across the floor.

The shooting stops. There's a split second where Prakesh thinks they've lost, that one of the guards is about to come round the corner and put a bullet through him. But then he hears Jojo's voice. “L-l-let's go!”

The rest of the workers roar in agreement, and he feels feet pounding on the metal surface. He tries to get up, but as he does so his hand slips in the blood pooled on the floor, and he crashes back down, knocking his chin on the metal plating.

Jojo pulls him up. He's surprisingly strong. He and Prakesh stumble to the exit, and that's when one of the racks gives way.

Its supports are riddled with bullet holes. It gives off a metallic screech as it comes down, collapsing in on itself, kicking up clouds of dust as it goes, spewing its cargo across the floor. Prakesh pulls Jojo back just in time.

The sounds of the crash die away, replaced by Prakesh's ragged breathing. Their way to the passage beyond is blocked. A woman, the one who told Jojo that it was crazy to hit the fuel hangar, is staring at them through a gap in the debris, her eyes wide. Her lank hair hangs down her forehead in streaks of wet grey.

Prakesh moves to climb the wreckage, but Jojo grabs his shoulder. “There's an-n-n-nother way r-round,” he says

He doesn't give him a chance to respond–just plunges back the way they came, ducking into the passage. Prakesh takes one last look at the woman, and then follows.

Prakesh struggles to keep up with Jojo. He moves at a brisk pace, the rifle swinging back and forth. There's an alarm blaring somewhere, distant but urgent, and he swears he can hear more gunfire, as if the ship has finally woken up to the threat inside it. At each junction and stairway, Jojo pauses for a split second before picking a path and heading down it. Within minutes, Prakesh is lost–he knows they're heading deeper into the ship, but he has no clue where they are.

Eventually, he catches up to Jojo at the top of a set of narrow stairs, where he pauses a little longer than normal. “Hang on a second,” he says, gasping out the words.

“Gotta k-k-keep g-going,” Jojo says, starting down the stairs.

A few minutes later, they reach a T-junction in the corridor, marked by a rotating yellow light that casts strange shadows across the walls. Jojo stops, peering around the side of the junction, as if he senses something up ahead.

Prakesh stumbles to a halt, hands on his knees, blood pounding in his ears.

“Jojo,” he says.

“J-j-just g-gimme me a s-s-second.” He starts down the passage, then abruptly turns, heading back in the other direction.

Prakesh raises his head, and Jojo glances back at him. “I haven't b-b-been d-down here b-before. B-b-but I th-think this is—”

“Wait,” says Prakesh. “How do we get out after we torch the fuel?”

“I t-t-told you. W-we g-get to the b-b-boats.”

“What if there aren't enough? What if we get ambushed again?”

“W-w-won't happen.” Jojo's eyes are alive. “I b-b-been planning th-this for a l-long t-time. I'm g-gonna g-g-g-get out, and th-then I'm g-g-going back to D- to D—” His voice cuts off, and he swallows hard: “… Denali. Up n-n-n-north.”

“We can't—”

“
No.
” Jojo's tone of voice is almost pleading, as if he's trying to make Prakesh understand. “I have to g-g-get out. M-m-my uncle c-c-can't s-s-survive if I'm n-n-not there. He's g-g-g-got a b-b-bad leg. I g-g-gotta find him.”

Prakesh puts a hand on the wall, breathing hard, forcing oxygen into his lungs.
This is all happening too fast
, he thinks. He assumed Jojo had a coherent plan, latched onto it, desperate to get out of this place. It's a mistake that might get him killed. There'll be no ordered exit, no regimented attack on their captors. Jojo doesn't even know where he's going. The whole thing has already gone to shit, and there'll be more deaths by the time it's done. He can't let that happen. He won't.

Jojo tilts his head. “Th-that was p-p-pretty clever b-b-back there,” he says, glancing down at the rifle. “W-w-w-with the sssss-st-st-stinker.”

“Thanks.” Prakesh doesn't know what else to say.

Jojo grins, hefting the rifle and stepping into the corridor. “OK. I th-think I know w-where we are. Let's—”

The bullet takes him in the side of the neck.

I'm on the guard in two steps, aiming a knee right for his groin. He sees it coming, manages to half turn, but he's not even close to fast enough. My knee crunches into him, and he doubles over, wheezing. I shove him sideways, and his head bangs off the corridor floor.

“Shit,” Koji says, his voice curiously breathy.

“No choice,” I say as I get to my feet. I'm amazed that I can speak, even more amazed that he hears me over the blood pounding in my ears. But if he'd used the gun, it would have brought others running.

“No, I mean, shit!” Koji is pointing down the corridor. I look up–and that's when the bullet buries itself in the wall next to me.

There are two more guards by the stairway. One of them is already turning, using the rail to swing himself around, shouting for help. The second is raising his gun again, taking careful aim.

I don't turn to see where the bullet ended up. I run with my head and shoulders tucked in, zigzagging in the narrow corridor, presenting as small a target as possible. I can hear Koji behind me, hear his panicked breathing and stumbling footsteps. Another gunshot: this time, the bullet ripples the air above my head.

“Go right! Go right!” Koji shouts. Another corridor branches off the one we're in, and I have to dig into the turn hard to stop myself from crashing into the wall. I scrape my shoulder along it, barely feeling it through the thick coat.

We crash down another steep stairway, tumbling into the corridor beyond. “Where's the generator room?” I shout.

“Just ahead,” Koji says. He can barely get the words out.

Another left. Another right. The pumping noise is louder now, coming from all directions. But then another sound eclipses it. Gunfire. And it's coming from in
front
of us, from further down the corridor.

“There,” Koji says. The corridor ahead of us opens up into a larger space, terminating in a vertical drop of a few feet. The floor is slightly curved where it meets the wall, the metal racks of equipment stretching beyond my field of view. I can smell engine oil, and, over it, the sharp stench of gunpowder.

There are two guards hugging the door on either side, their backs to us. One of them is blind-firing into the room, but the other–a man with powerful upper arms and thick dreadlocks hanging down his back–is picking his targets, aiming carefully. He squeezes off a shot, and there's a howl of pain from inside the room.

These guards aren't shooting at us. They don't even know we're here. What is this?

I don't waste time trying to find out. If that's the generator room, then it means the guards are firing on the workers. I don't know why, or why it's happening now, but something tells me I've got a much better chance with the people in that room than I have on my own.

The two guards haven't seen us yet. I go faster, sprinting right for the entrance, pumping my arms from side to side, head down, eyes up, muscles on fire.

Dreadlocks whips his head round, finally noticing us. There's no time for finesse here. I stutter-step, closing the distance, and launch myself towards him.

The first thought is to lead with my elbow, or my knee. But I launched a little too late, with no time in the air to line up the strike. The man's head collides with my torso, the impact spasming through me, and then he and I are tangled up in a confusing embrace, everything spinning, my leg knocking into the door, smacking my head on the ground, trying to tuck into a roll, not quite doing it. I come to a stop, skidding on my back in icy water

The floor is under an inch of it, foaming with muck, and it immediately soaks through my clothes. The air above me is full of gunfire and angry shouts and screams of pain. I try to get up, propping myself on one elbow, then have to throw myself down again as a gun goes off. In the dim light, the other people in the room are nothing but silhouettes.

The gunfire has stopped, and now people are shouting, talking over each other. I can't see Koji at all. What I can see is the other guard, the one who was blind-firing. He's slumped over the edge of the door, blood trickling into the water.

“Get the door! Shut it!”

“Can we lock it from the inside?”

“Anybody hurt?”

“They'll be more coming. Hurry.”

We're in a chamber with rusted walls, bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Generators squat on low tables, looking like alien artefacts, all black piping and tarnished silver blocks. Tools are half-submerged in the water, spinning in place: wrenches, screwdrivers, welding goggles, something that looks like a primitive plasma cutter.

I look from face to face: men and women, less than a dozen, all dirty, all thin. Workers–have to be. I don't see Carver, or Prakesh. I spot Koji–he's managed to get inside, but whoever these people are, they've identified him as a guard. They've got him pinned to a wall, an elbow at his throat.

“No no no!” I shout, forcing myself to my feet. I can't have them shoot Koji. I still need him. “He's here to help.”

The workers look between me and Koji, suspicious, not sure how to proceed. I open my mouth to speak, and then feel a hand on my shoulder.

I'm still too wired from the run, and I spin round, my body moving before I can stop it, bringing my arms up, ready to fight.

Aaron Carver puts his hands on top of mine, and slowly pushes them down. There's the strangest expression on his face–like he's expecting me to vanish, like I'm a dream that he's about to wake up from. His face is mottled with bruises, his lip split. A dried crust of blood marks his forehead like warpaint.

He reaches out, his fingertips brushing my face.

He's going to say something smart, like he always does. He's going to make a crack about always having to save my ass, or about me making an entrance. He's going to—

Then he pulls me towards him, wrapping his arms around me.

And just for a second, I'm safe.