Impact (8 page)

Okwembu doesn't have a chance to process the sudden arrival of the others. They tumble into the vehicle, sprawling across the floor in a tangle of limbs.

The man who pulled them in screams over his shoulder to the driver. “Get us out of here!”

The woman next to him slams the door shut. The driver floors it, and the vehicle bucks and writhes as it fights against the wind.

The inside of the vehicle is cramped and low, with two rows of seats facing each other. The seats are covered in torn brown fabric, worn enough that Okwembu can feel the metal frame beneath digging into her back. The others throw themselves into the seats next to hers. She can feel Carver staring at her, taking in the streaks of blood on her face.

The noise makes speaking impossible. The wind has picked up again, and it's as if what came before was only a warm-up. She can feel the constant pressure on the vehicle's right-hand side, an angry god trying to shove them off the road. Okwembu can just see through the glass at the front of the vehicle. The headlights illuminate a world of flying debris, most of it moving too fast to identify.

A rock appears in the windshield, tumbling slowly, nearly as tall as the vehicle's front end. Okwembu flinches, but the driver is already spinning the wheel. The tyres screech as they dig into the dirt.

None of them have seat belts. Aaron Carver slams into her right side, squashing her up against the side of the vehicle. For a moment, her ear is pressed against the metal, and she can hear the true ferocity of the wind. She actually
feels
the rock scrape the car.

The skid has made them tilt, lifting the wheels on the right side an inch or so off the ground. The driver spins the wheel the other way, but the wind has them in its teeth. They're slowly tilting, inch by inch.

And Okwembu sees why. The skid has shifted everyone in the vehicle to one side. If they don't shift their weight to the other in the next few seconds, they're going to roll.

Nobody else has figured it out. They're all scrambling to stay in their seats, all panicking. She has to act, and she has to act now.

She manages to get a hand between her and the wall. But she's not strong enough. She gets her foot flat against it, half twisting her ankle, gritting her teeth against the pain.

She pushes hard, shoving them off her. Carver was a tracer, wasn't he? Someone used to movement and centres of gravity? Surely he'll see what she's doing. But when she looks into his eyes, she sees only anger and confusion. He's not going to do anything. It's up to her, like it always is.

Janice Okwembu scrambles off her seat, and hurls herself to the other side of the vehicle. The tilt pauses, just for a fraction of a second, but it's enough. And it's Clay who reacts, scuttling on all fours across the vehicle, pushing his back up against the right-hand door. The woman does the same, and
finally
the others figure it out.

The vehicle slams back to the road with a bang that rattles Okwembu's skull. The driver wasn't expecting it, and for a moment it feels as if the vehicle will spin out of control.

Okwembu closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, they're back on course. She can still hear debris scraping across the vehicle's body, but they're on a steady path, the headlights slicing through the darkness ahead of them.

Trembling, she pulls herself back onto her seat. The others do the same. She glances at Carver, but he's not looking at her. He's staring at the floor, hugging himself, shivering with cold.

“Almost out of it,” the man says, raising his voice above the wind. His accent is unbelievably thick, like he's chewing a mouthful of food. “Everybody just hang on.”

Okwembu can feel that they're descending, winding down the slope, away from the lake. Exhaustion and adrenaline catch up with her. She bites the inside of her cheek–she has to stay awake. Her hand moves to the data stick around her neck, grasping it through her shirt.

After a while, the road straightens out. They're still deep in the forest, but now the wind is nothing more than a low murmur.

The man in front reaches over the seats, resting a hand on the driver's shoulder. “We OK there, Iluk?” he says.

Iluk nods, and the man turns back to them. He puffs out his cheeks, shaking his head.

“You're damn lucky,” he says to them. He's a big man, with short black hair and a neatly trimmed goatee under a pockmarked face. “You hadn't come out onto the old forest road when you did, we'd've gone right past you, praise the Engine.”

Okwembu doesn't have time to question the strange phrase. The man keeps talking. “These storms can last for days,” he says, looking up at the roof as if he expects what's left of the wind to lift it right off. “We get the real big ones once or twice a year. Real big ones. Nothing like the dust storms they get further south, though. Those things last for months.”

“Who are you?” Prakesh says. His voice is a croak, and he's shivering badly.

“Hell–hang on,” the man says. There's a storage locker bolted to the vehicle frame above him, and he clicks it open. Okwembu can see food containers, water canteens, equipment the purpose of which she can only guess at. And blankets.

It's these that the man goes for, passing them out. Okwembu gives him a grateful smile, wrapping one around her. It's scratchy, and smells of alcohol and sweat, but it's warm. Their rescuers pass out canteens of water, and they drink deeply.

“I'm Ray,” the man says. “Iluk's doing the driving, and this here is Nessa.” He gestures to the woman. She has a face that looks as if it's chiselled out of stone, framed by long, dirty-blonde hair. Like Ray and Iluk, she wears camouflage-patterned overalls, open at the neck, with a thick hooded sweater below them.

One by one they introduce themselves. Ray nods to each of them in turn. “Any more of you out there?” he says.

The others look at Okwembu. She shrugs. “No. There was just the one–the man you found me with.”

Carver opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off. “He wanted to go back to the lake, and I tried to stop him. He attacked me.”

“Gods,” Clay says. His face is pale, his shoulders shaking.

“You're lying,” says Carver.

Okwembu shrugs. “You heard him, back at the lake. He panicked, and I had to defend myself. I didn't have a choice.”

Okwembu can feel suspicion radiating off Prakesh and Carver. Before they can say anything, Ray clears his throat. “What about the ship you came down in?” he says. “Where'd you land?”

Prakesh lifts his head. “We hit the lake. It's gone. Anyway, it was just an escape pod, not the ship itself. That burned up in the atmosphere.”

“So no supplies? Any fuel, or anything?”

“Gone.”

“Ah, shit.” Ray shakes his head. “Prophet's not going to like that.”

He glances at Nessa, and something passes between them, something that Okwembu can't quite figure out.

“Who's Prophet?” says Clay.

“We saw your ship come down,” Ray says, ignoring him. “And I said to myself, Ray, the Engine has provided for us. It has sent survivors to join our cause. Prophet sent Nessa and Iluk and me up here, see if we could find where you landed.”

He pauses. “Are you really from…” He raises his eyes, lifts his chin towards the roof.

It takes them a moment to realise what he's referring to. Prakesh speaks first. “Outer Earth?”

“I knew it!” Ray slaps his knee, a huge grin spreading across his face. His teeth have been worn down to tiny stubs.

“Outer Earth's a myth,” says Nessa. But she's glancing at Ray, like she wants him to confirm it.

“Ain't no myth,” Ray says, grinning. “Told you, didn't I? Where else could they have come from?”

“Why'd you leave?” Nessa says.

“Ask her,” Carver says, jerking his head at Okwembu.

Okwembu's calm has returned. Carver seems to speak at a distance–he can't hurt her, not any more. She glances at him, then turns to Ray and Nessa, lifting her chin slightly as she speaks. “Outer Earth was hit by a virus,” she says. “It killed almost everyone it touched. A few of us escaped.”

Carver gives a bitter laugh. “She left out the part where she and her buddies blew a hole in the side of the station dock.”

Stupid
, she thinks, looking over at him.
Stupid and petty and small-minded. Just like Mikhail.
She exhales through her nose. “I've already explained why I—”

“You don't get to explain shit.”

Ray clears his throat. “I see you folks have a lot to work out. But you're going to be fine. We're going to get you to the
Ramona
, and we're going to look after you.”

Nobody speaks. The rumble of the engine is undercut by the howling wind, not as strong as it was but still forceful enough to rattle the sides of the vehicle.

Eventually, Prakesh says, “What's the
Ramona
?”

Ray smiles again. “You'll see.”

The smell in the amphitheatre has gotten worse.

In the past, the station council used it to hold meetings, addressing the techs and functionaries that kept Apex and the wider station beyond it running. It's a huge room, two hundred feet wide, with a dozen rows of tiered seats sweeping down to a stage below.

The rows are packed with people. They lie on the floor, slouch against each other in the hard plastic seats, huddle in small groups along the walls. It's baking hot, and the thick scent of sweat hits Anna like a fist across the face.

She's still not sure why everyone congregates here. People have occupied habs and laboratories, the gallery, the mess hall. But the amphitheatre is in the centre of the sector, furthest from the borders. It's as if Outer Earth has decided to draw itself in, as if the people inside it find comfort in spending time together here.

She looks around, finally spotting her parents on the bottom row. Her mother, Gemma, is asleep, her head resting on her knees. Her father, Frank, is deep in conversation with someone, off to one side. As Anna gets close, she sees it's Achala Kumar.

Anna only really met her a few days ago, after everyone had packed into the amphitheatre. She feels the same morbid curiosity as the first time she saw her. It was her son Prakesh who created Resin.

Achala looks as if she hasn't changed her clothes in a week. The lines on her face are like deep cuts. “Don't tell me that,” she's saying to Anna's father. “Don't
say
that. I deserve a place on that ship more than anyone.”

“Achala.” Frank Beck puts a hand on her shoulder. “Think about what you're saying. I know you want to see Prakesh again, but—”

“I have a
right
,” Achala says, raising her voice. “They can't tell me I don't.”

“We don't even know if he survived.” He ignores the shock and anger on Achala's face. “I'm sorry, but it's the truth.”

She slaps his hand away, then turns on her heel and stalks off.

Frank Beck's shoulders slump. For a moment, he looks so defeated that Anna wants to run after Achala Kumar, scream at her, tell her to leave them alone. She settles for wrapping her arms around her dad from behind, resting her head on his shoulder. She has to stand on tiptoe to do it.

He nuzzles his head against hers. “Hey you. What are you up to?”

“Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Fine, sweetheart. Just fine.”

“What was that about?” she says, pointing at the retreating Achala.

Frank sighs. “What do you think? She wants a guaranteed spot on the
Tenshi
.”

“She wants to skip the lottery?”

“Mm-hmm.” He perches on the edge of a plastic chair. “Can't say I blame her. If you were down there, I'd probably be doing the same.”

Anna moves in next to him. “You don't control who gets to go. Why's she bothering you?”

“That's what friends do. They listen to each other, even when one of them isn't thinking straight.” He sighs, rubbing his left eye with the heel of his hand. “You'd think her husband would talk to her. He's a good man–used to work on the space construction corps, you know…”

Anna tunes him out. She's thinking about the lottery.

What's left of Outer Earth is dying. The fusion reactor keeps them spinning, maintaining the artificial gravity, and it keeps the water and the lights on. But its shielding is failing. No one knows when it'll go, but once it does, it's all over. Outer Earth will become a frozen tomb.

The asteroid from the
Shinso Maru
should have fixed it. It had all the tungsten they needed to shore up the reactor. But now it's gone, taken by the Earthers.

Their only hope is the one remaining asteroid catcher in existence: the
Tenshi Maru
. And it's still three months away. When it finally arrives, it's going to attempt the same re-entry manoeuvre that the
Shinso
did before it, using the asteroid it brought back. They'll ride it down, all the way through the atmosphere, taking their chances on Earth.

There are only a few spaces available on the ship. To get there, they'll need to leave via Apex's twelve escape pods–each of which can only take three people.

Everyone else gets left behind.

Even then, the trip will be crazy dangerous. The escape pods will get them most of the way to the
Tenshi
, but they can't dock with it directly–something about airlock compatibility. Every person in the pods will need to strap on a space suit, and transfer over to it.

Anna flashes back to the nightmare, when she was drifting in space, alone and terrified. Even the thought of going zero-G is enough to make a cold sweat prickle the back of her neck.

She needs to do something normal. Something beyond just worrying and surviving. She could go back to the Apex control room–it's not good for much these days, but in the first days of the crisis Anna spent a few hours there, trying to reach the
Shinso
on every wavelength she could think of. She got nothing but static.

She dismisses the idea–there's nothing for her in the control room any more. “I'm going to go find some matte-black,” she says. “Finish the painting.”

Frank gives her a tired smile, a final hug. Anna heads back up the stairs. Only a few lights in the ceiling are still illuminated, and she has to watch her step in the gloom. She picks up her pace as she hits the corridor, using the movement to chase the thoughts away.

The painting she's working on is in a corridor two levels above her: a mural of Outer Earth itself, hanging above the planet. Anna's never been outside, so she has to work from her imagination. She can't say why she's doing it–a few months from now, there'll be nobody alive to appreciate it.

She uses matte-black, a gluey residue left over from water processing. It's difficult to work with, but it's perfect for painting: a deep, velvety black that no other chemical mix can replicate. Anna loves it, even if it sticks her fingers together.

Her father used to work in the water-processing facilities, and she never wanted for matte-black. That's all changed. Still, she has at least one good source for it.

The hab is on the other side of the sector, on the top level. She comes to a halt outside the door, getting her breath back, resting her head against the cool metal wall. Not for the first time, she marvels at how white the corridors are here. How impossibly clean they are.

She raps on the door. There are muffled sounds from within, as if the occupant is getting out of bed. “Just a minute,” he says.

“It's Anna,” she says.

“Yeah, OK. Hang on.”

The sounds continue. She's still standing there twenty seconds later, about to knock again, when the door clunks open.

All the doctors Anna has ever known look like they haven't slept in years. Elijah Arroway is no exception. It's impossible to picture him without the deep bags under his eyes, without the weary slump of his shoulders. Arroway was put in charge of fighting the Resin outbreak, and he still looks as if he hasn't quite recovered.

He's been handling water processing for Apex. It was what he did before he became a doctor, and they needed that more than they needed his medical training. All of which made him Anna's number one matte-black source.

He attempts a smile when he sees her, doesn't quite manage it. “Anna. Not a good time, I'm afraid.”

“Oh. OK,” Anna says, frowning. It's not like Arroway to be so abrupt. She shakes it off–they're all on edge. “Just came for the matte.”

“The… right. Of course.”

He turns and walks back into the hab. It's tiny, no more than a few yards across, with a single cot tucked against the wall on the left. The door to the bathroom at the back is slightly open, and Anna can smell the tang of the chemical toilet.

There's a low table in the corner. A rectangular plastic container sits on top of it, filled to the brim with the glistening black substance. Anna leans against the doorframe, and, as she does so, she notices something odd. There's a duffel bag on the unmade bed, jammed full of clothes. The bottom half of a sleeve hangs out of it, draped across the covers.

“Here,” Arroway says.

Anna pulls her gaze away from the bag. She has to take the container with both hands, and the matte-black sloshes gently as she does so. She gets her forearms under it, smiling thanks.

“Moving hab?” she says, nodding at the bag.

Arroway grimaces again. “Toilet's broken. They've got a spot downstairs I can use.”

“Right,” she says, and then can't think of anything else to say.

“Well,” Arroway says, nodding to her. He closes the door gently, clicking it shut in her face.

She stands there for a moment. Then she shakes her head, and walks back down the corridor.

The matte-black in her arms is heavier than she expected, and she has to stop to rest several times, carefully placing it next to her on the floor. The second time she stops, she idly dips the tip of her index finger in the substance, tracing a delicate curlicue on the corridor floor. She rubs that fingertip against her thumb, enjoying the slightly rubbery give of the matte-black.

She's still there twenty minutes later. Still rubbing the matte-black between her fingers.

The fire in the gallery. Arroway's bag. The lottery.

They go round and round in her mind.

She's being paranoid. She's bored, and she's scared, and she's looking for something to distract her. The things she's seen are utterly unrelated.

Anna gets to her feet, leaving the matte-black on the corridor floor. After all, it's not like anyone is going to steal it. She rubs her index finger and her thumb together once more, then jogs off down the corridor.