Impact (16 page)

“Leave us,” says Prophet.

The two guards glance at each other, then obey, quietly slipping out of the door and closing it behind them.

Okwembu doesn't know where they are in the ship. Every corridor looks the same, every stairway identical. She thinks they're somewhere high up, possibly near the deck, but there's no way to tell for sure.

The room they're in is a hab–or what passes for one here, anyway. There's a single cot, the creases in its bedding razor-sharp. A folding chair. A table, clear of everything except a battered plastic bottle of water. There are no windows, no decoration of any kind. The only light comes from a bulb in the ceiling, hidden behind a wire grill.

Prophet perches on the edge of the table, arms folded, looking at her expectantly. Okwembu says nothing. She knows that one wrong word will get her sent to wherever Prakesh Kumar and Aaron Carver have gone, so she waits for him to make the first move.

Eventually, Prophet does. “So who are you?” he says.

“My name is Janice Okwembu. I was, until quite recently, head of the council on Outer Earth.”

If he's surprised, he gives no sign. “And how, exactly, did you come into the service of the Engine?”

“That's not what you're really interested in.”

Okwembu looks around her. “This ship,” she says, “was probably built at the same time as my station. They both run off the same type of power source: a fusion reactor, yes? Devices like that were saved for the biggest structures and military units.”

She stops, raises her eyes to find Prophet's remaining one. “But yours isn't working.”

Prophet smirks. “Oh?”

Okwembu starts walking, slowly making her way around the room, trailing a hand along the wall. “You're broadcasting a radio message in an attempt to gather supplies from travellers seeking sanctuary. Your colleague, Ray–one of the first things he asked about was whether any fuel had survived the crash.”

“We have vehicles. Boats. The Humvee. They need fuel.”

Okwembu raises her finger, turning it this way and that. There's a little dust on the tip, and she rubs it away with her thumb.

“Boats can be propelled without using the motor. And your Humvee is a luxury, not a necessity. You have everything you need right here.” She pauses. “Including, I assume, a steady stream of workers and supplies, thanks to that radio message.”

Prophet gives a good-natured shrug. “The Engine provides for its people. We just try to save as many as we can.”

“You need the fuel to run your ship. You need it to power your lights and your water purification systems. But why? After all, you have a perfectly good fusion reactor sitting right here, don't you?”

She pulls the chair out from behind the table and sits down on it, crossing her legs. Without asking for permission, she picks up the bottle of water and twists off the cap. It's tangy with purification chemicals, but it quenches her thirst.

“Your Engine is broken,” she says. “Or, at least, it isn't functioning as it should do. It doesn't matter what you believe, or what you worship. Belief doesn't fix a broken machine. I think your men know that.”

Prophet stiffens. Okwembu stops, wondering if she's gone too far. Belief can be a dangerous thing–people will question what's right in front of them, but swear that something invisible exists. What if she—

But then Prophet smiles. And for the first time, Okwembu sees past the mask he wears. What's underneath it is as cold as the forest wind.

“And you have a spare fusion reactor, do you?” he says. “Hidden somewhere?”

“No,” Okwembu says, putting the bottle back on the table. “But I know how to fix yours.”

With that, she reaches into the neck of her shirt and pulls out the data stick.

She holds it up, letting Prophet get a good look at it. Then she bends forward, removing the lanyard from around her neck, and places it on the table between them.

Prophet says nothing.

Okwembu nods to the stick. “The ship we used to enter Earth's atmosphere was an asteroid catcher. Back on Outer Earth, the asteroid would have provided us with resources, but in this case we used it as a heat shield. We spent a week in orbit, while some of the crew shaped the rock for re-entry.”

Prophet picks up the data stick, resting it in his palm.

“I spent that week on that ship's bridge,” Okwembu says, “downloading everything I could from the ship's computer. The operating system was ancient, but I managed to get it all into a useable form.”

“Data,” says Prophet, not asking a question. It's as if he's trying the word out, rolling it around in his mouth. “What kind of data?”

Okwembu shrugs. “Water filtration specs, data on plant growth, maps. Things I thought might conceivably be useful on a planet we knew nothing about.” She takes another sip of water. “As I said, I took as much as I could. I didn't have time to sort through what I had, and since the stick had more than enough space, I decided I didn't have to. So there's information on the ship's fusion reactor. Specifications, repair protocols, parts listings, emergency procedures. This stick contains everything you need to put a broken reactor back together.”

“And yet,” says Prophet, deadly quiet, “you offer it in place of yourself. Like you're above serving the Engine. People have died here for much less than what you've just done.”

Okwembu has gambled a good deal in these last few minutes. She hates having to do it, hates the uncertainty, but knows that it's the only choice she has. There is a society here, a stable one, with structure and order and control. There are hierarchies, chains of command. There are workers–she saw one of them, back bent, mopping the floor as they passed what looked like a mess. There is water, and there is power. Everything she needs. She could integrate herself into the
Ramona
's society, gather allies, make it her own.

And all she needs to do that is a little time.

“You can't afford to kill me,” she says.

“No?”

“No.” She folds her arms. “The computers on this ship are over a century old. I'm the only person here–maybe the only person
alive
–who can get the data off that stick in a useable form. You let me stay, you let me join your…
faith
, I suppose is the word. I download the data for you, and you get your reactor back. No more depending on fuel.”

“We could torture you,” he says, the grey eye never wavering.

“But you won't. You've done it before, and we both know that it never quite works. Isn't it simpler just to make the trade I'm proposing?”

She gets to her feet, steps closer to him. “You need me, Prophet. The data is there, and I'll get it for you. You just have to trust me.”

He looks at her, as if sizing her up. She smiles back at him, serene. He'll do as she asks, because he's like her. He knows how to get on top, and stay there. He's created a society out of nothing–stable, controlled, self-sustaining.

There are only a few people with the will to do that. And they're very good at recognising each other.

Without another word, Prophet turns and strides to the door, flinging it open. He looks over his shoulder at her, and as she looks back into that lone grey eye, she has another unwelcome flicker of doubt.

“Come with me,” Prophet says. “I want to show you something.”

Harlan leaps backwards, yelping. His torch goes flying, extinguishing itself as it bounces across the floor.

My eyes aren't used to the darkness, and I can't see a thing. I think about running–either sprinting forwards, shoulders down, making myself harder to hit, or back through the door, putting a wall between myself and the shooter.

Before I can decide, Harlan cries out. “Wait! Don't shoot! Eric, don't shoot. It's me.”

Silence.

I hear Harlan take another step forward. My eyes have adjusted now, and I can see him, a shape in the darkness. “Listen to me, there's—”

A second gunshot rings out. Harlan falls to his knees.

I'm almost certain he's been hit, the thought striking me like an iron bar. But he just lost his balance. I can hear him breathing, ragged and heavy.

There's a snap, then a hiss. A burning white light appears at the back of the room, spewing thick smoke. A flare of some kind. Tears prickle at my eyes as they adjust a second time, and I hold a hand up to my eyes. I can see people, silhouetted by the light, but it takes me a minute to see their faces.

Amira is standing in front of me.

I blink, startled, on the verge of saying her name. But it isn't Amira. It can't be. Amira's dead.

Then I get a better look at the figure. It's a man, not a woman. He's tall–six five, six six, easy. His dark hair is tied back in a ponytail, and his face could be carved from rock. It's lined and weathered, the mouth set in a thin, jagged line. He wears grey pants and a dark shirt under a knee-length coat, and he's carrying a gun–a black rifle, chunky and angular. The coat as battered as his skin; on the breast, I can just make out a logo: a bird in a golden circle, with the words ROYAL CANADIAN AIRFORCE stitched beneath it.

He has the oddest thing around his neck–a necklace, a piece of cord with something white and curved hanging off it. A tooth, as long as my little finger.

Eric doesn't move. He's looking at Harlan, and there's no mistaking the expression on his face.

“You,” he says. “You'd better have a good reason for coming back here.”

Harlan is smiling, getting up off the floor, glancing at me as he does so. “Oh, I do, believe me. It's good to see you again, Eric, it really is. Can we talk? I—”

“Who's she?” Eric says, jerking his head at me.

I'm about to speak, to tell them about the wound in my thigh, but Harlan cuts me off. “She's the reason I'm here. I wanted to bring her to you. She crashed outta the sky, and I looked after her. She'll tell you.” He looks at me again, and it's impossible to miss the pleading note in his voice. “Go on. Tell him. Like you said you would.”

Eric turns on his heel and walks away, not glancing over his shoulder. “If they aren't gone in one minute,” he says to someone in the darkness, “shoot them.”

I don't know if these people can help me, but I'm not letting them leave without finding out. Whatever is between Harlan and Eric, however they know each other, I have to get past it.

“Wait!” I say.

Eric keeps walking.

My mouth is dry, my head pounding, but I make myself form the words. “There's shrapnel in my leg, and I can't take it out myself.”

He doesn't stop. Doesn't even register that he's heard me. I swallow, trying to keep my voice calm. “Please. You're all I've got.”

Eric turns back to look at me. It's impossible to decode the expression on his face, so I don't try. I just start talking, being as clear as I can. I tell them where I come from, what's happened to me. I tell them about how I got injured, about how it's infected. And I tell them that Harlan brought me down the mountain, that he kept me safe.

I look at Eric as I say this, but his expression doesn't change. Around us, the room is silent, with nothing but the very slight shifting of bodies. Harlan, Eric and I could be the last people on the planet, locked in this circle of light.

“Why should we help you?” Eric says.

“Because I'll die if you don't.”

Eric doesn't even blink. “So?”

“
So?
” Harlan's eyes are huge. “Eric, you can't do that, she's—”

“Shut up, Harlan.” Eric looks at me. “You got anything to trade? Anything we can use?”

I'm ready for this. I might not have anything I can give them, but I've still got the most important thing: my skills as a tracer.

“I can run,” I say. “Back on Outer Earth I was a tra… I carried packages and messages and things. I can help. I can go wherever you need me to.”

But even as I say the words, I'm aware of how pathetic they sound. I'm not even halfway through before Eric is shaking his head. “Don't need any of that,” he says. “Time's up. Get out of here. And
don't
come back.”

For the second time, he turns and walks away.

“Eric,” says Harlan. “Eric, please.”

But it's not going to work. Not this time.

So I do the only thing I can.

I've always been quick from a standing start, and I'm on top of Eric before anyone can stop me. I reach out, spinning him around. In the same movement, I grab the butt of his gun and plant the end of the barrel on my forehead.

That
knocks the sour expression off his face–for a moment, real terror shoots across it.

Guns are being pointed at me from a dozen directions, warnings being shouted, but nobody really knows what to do. After all, how can you seriously threaten to shoot someone already holding a gun to her own head?

I've got Eric's weapon with both hands, one under the barrel, the other under the stock. The fever is doubling and tripling my vision, and my thigh is screaming at me.

“I don't get to walk away from this,” I say through gritted teeth. “And you don't get to leave me to die slow. Harlan said you could help me, but if you can't, or won't, then do me a favour and kill me now.”

Nobody moves. Behind me, Harlan moans.

Eric's finger is just outside the trigger guard. A second's worth of movement, and it's all over. No pain. No more fighting.

No Prakesh, no Carver. No Okwembu, either. Do you really want that? Do you really want to lose that chance?

Eric wrenches the gun away, so quickly that the edge of the barrel scratches my forehead. I hear hurried footsteps behind me, Eric's group closing in, but he raises a hand, and they stop.

I keep my eyes locked on his, breathing hard. Inwardly, I can't believe I just did what I just did. It was like someone else was in control of my body.

“Let me help her, boss,” says someone to my left. I can't see who it is.

Eric closes his eyes briefly. “What are you even doing up here, Finkler?”

A man steps into the light. He's Eric's polar opposite–podgy, with rolls of skin under his chin. He has bright, mischievous eyes, and his ears are enormous, sticking out from the side of his head like handles. He wears a torn T-shirt with the words
Yukon Horsepacking
across it, in big, curving letters. His arms are bare, but if the cold bothers him he gives no sign.

“If she's still walking,” he says, “then we've still got time. Couple of minutes with the old tweezers, some antibiotics, and she'll be good to go.”

“Not going to happen,” Eric says, but he sounds less sure now.

Finkler looks at me, tilting his head. “Where'd you get hit?” he says.

I don't want to take my pants off in front of everyone, so instead I point, my finger brushing my inner thigh. I have to make a real effort not to scream–not just at the pain, but at how hot and puffy the flesh feels, even under my pants.

“I took the main piece out,” I say, my mouth dry. “But there's still a few shards in there.”

“I can handle that.” Finkler turns to Eric. “Come on, boss. I need the practice anyway.”

For a very long minute, nobody moves. Everybody is looking at Eric. I don't dare speak, don't dare make a single move. I definitely don't try to think about the word
practice
.

“You got spine, I'll give you that,” Eric says to me. He looks back at Finkler. “Do it. And stay up top–I don't want her going anywhere she's not supposed to.”

“No problem,” says Finkler. “I've still got a few supplies up here anyway.”

I don't get a chance to thank Eric. He raises a finger, pointing it at me. “But once he's done, you're gone. Both of you.”

Without another word, he turns, marching off into the darkness. Harlan tries to follow, but is brought up short behind me, two of Eric's people stepping in to block his path. They're muttering to each other, as if they aren't quite sure what just happened.

“OK then,” Finkler says. His voice is high and musical, elated, like Eric just gave him a new toy. “Come with me, and we'll fix you right up.”

He ducks through another set of thick double doors. I follow, too stunned to speak.

The interior of the hospital is a wreck. I can see the sky through the lobby ceiling. The corridors leading off it are dark, but Finkler seems to know where he's going. He moves surprisingly fast for a big man, his feet nimble as he skips around a pile of rubble.

I'm still trying to process the last few minutes, and it takes me some time to find my voice. “Thank you,” I say.

“Don't sweat it,” Finkler says. He smiles at me, his teeth picking up the light from outside. His voice is slightly nasal, like he's speaking through a pinched nose.

“I'm Riley.”

“And I,” he says, turning mid-stride and pulling off a weird bow, “am Finkler. Pleased to meet you.”

He bashes through a set of double doors, sending them swinging wildly. “This way,” he says over his shoulder.

I trail behind him. The corridor is almost pitch-black, but it doesn't stop Finkler. He's looking left and right, hunting for something.

“In here,” Finkler says, waving me over. He ducks into a room off the corridor, and when I follow him he's lighting an oil lamp, adjusting the light level using the wheel on the side.

The room we're in is so similar to Morgan Knox's surgery that it shakes me a little. It has the same kind of bed, the same wheeled machines and sets of drawers lining the walls, the same instruments laid out on metal trays. But there's a mattress on the bed, ancient and stained, and Finkler is bustling around collecting bottles and meds, lighting more oil lamps. He's whistling to himself–notes that almost form a tune but not quite.

The horror I felt before drips through me like poison. This is going to happen. He's going to cut into me. Right here, right now.

Finkler sees me standing in the doorway. “Come on,” he says, patting the bed.

The mattress is scratchy and wet under my hands. I shuck my shoes, and slide my pants down my legs. The air is cold, goose-bumping my skin–I'm self-conscious in my underwear, but Finkler barely notices. He's pulling on rubber gloves that look like they've been used to clean out a septic tank. I lie on my back, head towards the door.

I feel Finkler unwrapping the bandages, and raise my head just in time to see him grimace at the wound. “Yeesh,” he says. “Good thing you got here when you did. You say this happened yesterday?”

I nod.

“Hmm. Infection's taken faster than it should have done. Must be the metal in the leg. Nothing some meds won't cure, but it's good you got here when you did. Few more hours, that'd be that.”

I decide not to look. I rest my head back down on the mattress, telling myself to breathe.

“I'm going to give you some local anaesthetic, 'kay?” Finkler says. “Some of the fragments look to be buried pretty deep, so I need to cut around them a little. Sorry I can't knock you out or anything. Don't really know how.”

“But you
are
a doctor, right?” I say, trying not to let my nerves show in my voice. “You've done this before?”

Finkler smiles, not in the least bit concerned. “Yeah, totally. Air goes in and out, blood goes round and round. Long as that's happening, you got nothing to worry about.”

I stare at him.

He sees the expression on my face. “Stop being such a nervous nellie,” he says, slipping a syringe into the top of bottle and drawing the plunger back. “Honey, I learned medicine by doing medicine. Fixing broken legs, digging bullets out of people.”

He resumes his whistling, bending over me, and running a hand down my right leg.

“This'll sting a little,” he says, then laughs. “I've always wanted to say that. Usually the people I operate on are unconscious, or passed out from blood loss. It'll be nice to have someone to talk to.”

The needle goes in. I hiss, without really meaning to. Finkler scoffs. “You big baby,” he says.

The needle comes out, and numbness creeps up and down my leg, radiating outwards from my thigh. Finkler is pottering around, lining up instruments–tweezers, a pair of forceps, a scalpel. A memory blindsides me–Morgan Knox's surgery again, waking up after he put the explosives inside me. I shiver, shutting my eyes tight.

“Alrighty,” says Finkler. “Here we go.”

I feel pain when he cuts, but it's a distant sting, nothing more. I can get through this–it's far from the worst insult my body's suffered. Sweat stings my eyes, and the fever is making it hard to form thoughts. But I'm already thinking ahead, to what'll happen when Finkler is done. Somehow, I need to work out how to get to Anchorage. Maybe I can persuade Harlan to come with me…

That's when I hear voices from the corridor. Raised ones, shouting commands back and forth.

“Finkler?” I say, not opening my eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Everything OK out there?”

“What? Oh yeah, yeah, fine, they're probably just—”

The door behind me bangs open. The volume of the voices increases, and I look up to see Eric leaning over me. His face is upside down, but there's no mistaking the fury on it.