Extraction (39 page)

When I turn to him, Oliver’s eyes shoot daggers at me. “I knew they were right about you,” he mutters. “Completely Unstable.”

I jam the gag into his mouth. My hands shake as I work the fabric between his teeth.

The gag goes too far back. He chokes.

“I’m sorry.” I gasp, fumbling to loosen it.

Oliver’s teeth snap and cut my finger.

“Ouch!” A dot of blood appears on my pinky. Beneath my feet, the ship’s rumbling picks up, and an engine whir starts.

“Might want to buckle in, Clementine!” Beechy shouts from the cockpit.

Oliver thrashes in his wires, trying to spit the fabric out of his mouth. I reach to tie it off, but he shakes his head so fast I can’t catch it. He isn’t going to cooperate.

I scan the blue cubbies for something that might help me. The rumbling makes me lose my balance; I clutch the wall.

My eyes fall on a small, clear kit in one of the compartments with bandages and tiny red bottles inside it. A medikit. I get the compartment and then the kit open, and fumble through the medicine bottles. Sleeping pills might do the trick. But there are none. There are painkillers for mild to severe injuries, and tiny bots for reading blood pressure, but no sleeping pills.

I’m about to scream in agitation when I notice the kit behind this one. A small, square container with a few thin syringes inside, wrapped in plastic.

The ship shakes, and I hold on to the cubby door. A loud noise like suction rattles through the hold. My feet slide beneath me as Beechy lifts us off the deck. I grip the cubby tighter.

I glance at Oliver. He’s half free of the wires.

My fingers stretch and take the first syringe they find. Lettering on the plastic reads
SLUMBER INJECTION
.

I rip off the plastic and roll the thin, white syringe over in my palm while with the other hand I try to keep from falling. Oliver screams behind me. He spits the gag out all the way.

The ship turns and throws me sideways, against the wall. I cough and suck in air. My wounded jaw is on fire again.

With a grip on the corner of the compartments, I ignore the pain and heave myself to Oliver. His wild eyes look ready to kill me. If I wait two more seconds, he’ll get his hands loose enough to do it. He’s almost there.

I don’t want to hurt him. I want to make him better, but I can’t, I can’t.

I steady his thrashing head with a hand and punch the needle into his neck. My thumb on the plunger, I press until it’s all the way down, and all the liquid is inside Oliver’s jugular.

It sets his body seizing.

No, no, no. I panic. Did I give him the wrong thing?

I remove the needle, snatch the plastic covering, and reread the lettering:
SLUMBER INJECTION
. Unless they mismarked it, I didn’t screw up. This must be what it does.

I run my fingers through my hair, waiting and waiting for confirmation.

A moment later, he falls limp.

I press a hand to his wrist to check for a pulse. Relief seeps through me. He’s still alive, still breathing. But his neck is bleeding.

The ship tilts as I reach for the medikit. I hit the wall again and cry out. I struggle to unscrew a small vial of disinfectant and dab it on a bandage. When the ship evens out, I slap it onto his neck wound, hoping that’ll do the trick. If he dies because of me, I will never, ever forgive myself.

“I need your help!” Beechy calls.

“I’m coming.” I scramble to my feet, grab another strip of bandage for my still-stinging jaw, and shove the medikit and its contents back into a compartment.

39

In the main cockpit, Beechy swivels in the pilot seat, tapping buttons and pulling levers on the dashboard. We’re flying over the last ships on the hangar. I glimpse people running below us. Officials in black armor scramble into fighter jets. Two of them might be helping a limping Charlie.

“Buckle in,” Beechy says as we speed up through the short tunnel. The Pipeline is ahead. “Some of them are gonna follow us. I might need you to blast them for me.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Just sit down. I’ll show you.”

I swallow and slide into the copilot seat just as we careen up into the Pipeline. I grip the arms so I won’t fall. The chair shakes from all the rumbling, and it’s too big for me. When I pull the straps over my chest they don’t feel tight enough.

On the control panel, between all the buttons and knobs and monitors, a small screen at the very center flashes the blinking countdown:

1:22:40

“The clutches control the direction of the ship’s main guns.” Beechy points to two black levers on the dashboard in front of me. “Turn the red knob to activate the rear gun. Then press the clutch buttons to fire. Do it quickly, please.”

I bite my lip and twist the knob clockwise. Over my head, a screen slides down from the ceiling, showing me a pair of long, silver guns on the back of the ship and what lies in the Pipeline beyond them. A fighter jet zooms out of the hangar tunnel, followed by another, then another. They don’t head down to the Core; they make for us.

“You want me to blast them?” I ask.

“Just slow them down, if you can.”

My fingers are slippery from sweat and blood as I grip the clutches. The system must read my body heat because right away a green grid appears on the screen with circles that follow the maneuvering pods. I move the clutches, and when the guns aim at the right spot, the circles start beeping.

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep—

I press the buttons too late, and the jet of blue light disappears into the darkness.

Focus. It’s okay.

I try again. This time the blue laser skims the side of a jet, making it swerve out of the way.

It doesn’t shoot back. Of course not. No one wants to hit the KIMO bomb.

But they wouldn’t be flying after us without a reason. To cut us off and force us backward? If that’s the reason, they might be able to. They’re having no trouble keeping up.

“You can’t go any faster?” I ask.

“Would you like us to crash?” Beechy asks. “Believe me, I’m as anxious as you are. Once we’re almost clear of the Pipeline, I’ll put us in hyperdrive.”

I tap my fingernails on the clutches, as if that’ll speed up time when there are miles and miles of Pipeline ahead of us.

Focus. Breathe.

I’m pressing the clutch button to fire again when a jarring noise fills the cockpit. Like someone pulled an alarm and then cut it off abruptly.

“What—” I start.

The ship lurches to the side, skimming too close to the wall of the Pipeline. Gravity slams me back and against the arm of my seat. Beechy’s yelling, trying to keep us steady. I’m struggling to breathe because my seat strap’s pressing into my neck, cutting off my air.

Beechy veers us out of the way at the last second. I force the straps away from my throat and suck in all the oxygen I can manage.

“What happened?” I ask.

“
Vrux
,” Beechy says, tapping buttons on the dashboard.
“
They’re hacking the ship’s system.”

Odd lines of code fly across the monitors, replacing the timer reading, the pressure gauge, the fuel gauge, the speed odometer.

“Autopilot instigated,” a computerized voice says.

We’re slowing down. No no no no no. We should not be slowing.

“We have to stop it!”

“I can’t from here.” Beechy growls in annoyance. “I need you to find the engine room. It should be back down that passage heading to the bunk rooms. I need you to look for a module with red and blue wires—more specifically, for a silver one. Cut the silver wire, and that should disengage us from the main flight control system.”

I quickly unlatch my seat straps. “You’re sure?”

“No.” He jams a lever forward with both hands, and we speed up a little. But not nearly enough. “I’m hoping they built this ship like all the others. Please hurry. It’s very difficult to fight autopilot.”

I scramble out of my seat.

Back down the corridor, I spare a second’s glance at Oliver to make sure he’s okay. He’s still unconscious, still strapped to his seat. His head’s flopping over.

The ship careens and I smash into the wall of compartments. Pain shoots up my arm.

I don’t have time for this. Charlie’s gonna turn our ship around and then he’s gonna kill me.

He’s gonna kill Logan.

He’s gonna kill everyone.

I slip my fingers through the holes in one of the compartments to keep from falling again, and pry open a cubby. I need something sharp to use to cut the silver wire.

I fumble in a kit and find nothing but medical gauze.

I reach for another. This one’s empty. I curse loudly.

The ship tilts again, and my feet start to slide and I grip the compartment harder.

There! A small pair of scissors is in the kit behind the empty one. I hope they’re sharp enough. I snatch them and run down the corridor with the bunk room at the end of it. I pass a door to a tiny galley before I come to the one labeled
ENGINE
.

I slap my palm over a button in the wall, and the door zips open. Inside, the light’s already on. There’s a glass window in the floor through which I can see steam, probably from the engines. The walls are covered with buttons and wires and modules, from the floor to the ceiling that stretches a good five feet over my head. Whoever built this room must’ve built it for a giant.

I start skimming the walls. Wire after wire. There must be a thousand. Red wires and green wires and black wires and blue wires. Where’s the silver?

Beechy is better at this. He should be doing this, or Oliver. I’m useless when it comes to ships. I never wanted to be a pilot.

The rumbling picks up again. I press against the door and hold on to the handle—thank the stars there’s a handle on this side of it—and force my eyes to keep moving, to keep looking. I have to find the silver wire. Where are you, you stupid thing?

There—that might be it. A thin silver wire pokes out of a black panel near the ceiling, beside a clump of red wires mingled with blue.

But it’s too high for me to reach. I’m going to have to climb.

Finally, something I’m good at.

I push away from the door and quickly decipher every crack in the wall, every button that could be used as a foothold, as long as I’m careful not to press it. I slip the scissors between my teeth and bite down hard. If the ship tilts again or I fall, I don’t want them to slip and get lodged in my throat.

I reach and dig my nails into a crack between two modules, and heave myself up, placing my foot on top of a bigger button. Carefully, carefully.

I reach again and find another crack, and pull myself up to the top of a thicker panel.

The wall trembles and I clutch the crack with everything I have. Breathe. It’s okay.

One more step and I’m high enough to reach the wire if I hang on to the wall. If my fingers or my feet don’t slip.

I let go with one hand, my heart thrumming, and pull the scissors out from between my teeth. I stretch my hand up and work the wire between the scissor blades. I try to keep my breathing steady.

I squeeze the handle, listening for the snap that’ll tell me the wire is broken.

It doesn’t come.

Come on,
please
.

I try again, squeezing the scissors faster this time. Sweat trickles down my forehead.

It still doesn’t work. The blades must be dull.

I scream through my teeth.

I squeeze the scissors with no pause in between, again and again.

The ship jolts and I cling to the wall and keep trying. I can’t give up. I have to fix this.

The ship careens sideways again, and my fingers slip and I’m

falling,

falling,

landing hard on my back, and I’m slipping across the floor and crashing into a wall module because the ship is still turning. Charlie must be turning us around.

I gasp for breath. It feels as though knives and needles are sticking into my back, and I’m trying not to cry, but I see something that makes it better. It makes me dare to think maybe everything will be okay.

A piece of silver wire is stuck to the blade of my scissors.

When the ship rights itself, I reach for the door handle and heave myself up, ignoring the pain shooting through my body. I have to know if it worked. I have to know if Charlie’s still controlling the ship, or if it’s ours again.

The hallways don’t tilt anymore. The ship still rumbles, but it’s smoother, like it’s supposed to feel.

I stumble into the main cockpit. “What’s happening?”

“They turned us around for a minute there, but we’re back on target,” Beechy says, breathing heavily.

“It worked?”

“It did.”

I look out the window. He’s right. We’re flying straight through the Pipeline, even faster than before. I can almost see the end of the tunnel. The fighter jets are falling behind us.

“We have an hour and eight minutes,” Beechy says. “It might be enough time to escape the bomb’s range once we deploy it out in space. We’ll see.”

I sink into the copilot seat, smiling even though I probably shouldn’t yet.

“Think we could make it all the way to the moon?” I ask. “We could explode the acid generator. Knock out two evils at once.”

Beechy chuckles. “I’m afraid that might be too far, if you want to make it back home. Maybe we’ll take a trip there with a different bomb once all this is over.”

“Fred could make another one like this, I’m sure.”

There’s a crackling sound from the ship-com on the dashboard.

I freeze. So does Beechy.

A voice spills out of the speaker—a screaming, strangled voice: “Turn the ship around!”

It’s Charlie.

“I-I thought I disconnected us from him,” I say. My eyes are wide. I’m not smiling anymore.

“Ship-coms run on a different connection. It’s okay. I can turn it off.” Beechy reaches for the switch.

“Wait.” I put a hand on his arm.

Charlie’s still talking. I want to hear what he’s saying: “You’ve ruined everything. They’re coming for us—Marden is going to attack and it will be
your fault.
Everyone will die because of you.”