The Ward (42 page)

“Well?”

I shake my head and pull off my sack, taking a vial from one of the copper boxes.
If Kent knew . . .

This ain’t fair; I know it ain’t. It’s not his fault that he had no time to hand-deliver a vial all the way to a northern quadrant. But it’s not like his dad won’t get the cure at all. . . .

I uncork my canteen and pass it.

The beggar pours too long, smacks his lips at the sound of the splashing water. I have to tip the thing away from him, or he’d probably drain it.

While he downs the water from his own canteen, I give him the vial. “Drink this, please?” I ask, but he won’t answer, or even nod. I have no time to waste on an argument. Checking my cuffcomm—twenty-seven minutes till the squadrons fly through—I tell myself that this changes nothing. The water is still going to people who need it.

Keep moving.

Keep moving.

49

11:40 P.M., SUNDAY

F
ocus.

My breath catches when I see the metal bosun’s chair Benny used to roof my Rimbo. It dangles against the facade of a narrow, redbrick highrise, like any other pre–Wash Out remnant. I give silent thanks to the ancient nutjobs who rigged chairs to most of these buildings so they could have their windows cleaned. With fresh. For windows.

Shaking my head, I look up. The Milky Way stretches over the Ward, like asphalt and snow flung to the sky. Aside from the Isle—electric, blue-white, needle-sharp towers—and Ward Hope, it’s the brightest thing out there. And sitting right in front of me, nearly invisible . . . my Rimbo. It’s real, we’re really doing this.

My heart does a jig.

I hop over the bridge’s last few planks and onto the roof, right up to it. The boiler’s rattling away, a steam engine sending out heat good as any fire. It’s the only noise up here, and the only noise for miles. Before, the city was abuzz. Now, you can hear everyone waiting.

It’s eerie. Shakes my breath—no checkered flags, no spectators, no jeering. A roofrace no one knows about. Ironic, that the race we keep secret is the first to really matter.

I lift the roof and climb in, sinking into the familiar seat, breathing the pit’s smell. Old and musky. Puts the feeling of home in my bones. I breathe out, and finally feel like I know what I’m doing.

Then I see them—the packages—stacked up atop the dash next to my headset. Three more copper boxes. One for each sickhouse roof along my route. And I do exactly the thing that I shouldn’t—I imagine the people. Hundreds of them, like a hundred Avens. Her number’s not in there anymore, and I’m so thankful, but without her to focus on . . .

That feeling I had at the hospital, of being so full up?

Just one of those boxes holds fifty times that feeling. Five boxes, two hundred and fifty times. And when I think of everyone—eight hundred times that feeling?—I want to hurl.

One drop-off, I remind myself. Even just one is worth it.

I can’t stand to look at all them, the faces—the life count. ’Cause I’m not Aven or Callum. They can see the numbers. Giving is a part of them. If life were a numbers game, they’d count for infinity.

They’re the ones you can count on, because they never count themselves.

They’re too good.

I’ve never been too good. And that’s my saving grace.

My mind relaxes, my grip eases on the wheel—because I can handle one.

I reach for my headset to sync it with my cuffcomm. Earbud in my ear, mic by my mouth, I’m ready as I’ll ever be. “I’m in,” I say to the others, and take a swig from my canteen while my hands are still free. The static comes back in rounds, our signals linking up.

“Took you long enough,” one voice crackles.

Oh, Kent. I’m going to love having you in my head this race.

“Whoo! Drop-off one—down!” Terrence yells.

When Jones calls out two seconds later that he’s made his second drop-off, I say into my mic, “B, I’m putting these guys on mute. Too many voices—it’s gonna drive me bonkers.”

I think Ter actually boos me. Then it’s only me and Benny.

Strapped into my Rimbo, everything comes into focus. Liquid nerves shift to metal. Breathing turns metronome even. This is the only place where I know what I’m doing. Everything else may have changed, but not this. Not here.

One last time, I project a map of the route onto my lap and face it westward, the direction I’m headed. Neon-green, yellow, and red lines warp over my thighs, but the refresher is enough:

Yellow—the eleven rooftops, total.

Red—my five sickhouse drop-offs.

The entire route is no longer than half a mile, and my cuffcomm reads T minus nineteen minutes. Nineteen minutes till the governor’s squadron flies through, dropping off their “cure.” Eleven jumps . . . I should be done in less than five minutes. Seven, max.

Depending on what Derek’s chosen. Will he tell Kitaneh I’m alive?

Slow and steady, I ease against the acceleration—not one of my cargo will I let get destroyed ’cause I jumped the gun. My Rimbo rolls forward. I lean in, give it more. The wheels drag against a thin layer of undrained water covering the copper rain-collection panels.

Into my mic, “I’m off, Benny.”

I’m moving faster now, but I’ll need to gather enough speed to make the jump. I step on the acceleration—the mobile jolts forward and I watch my water tank drop a notch. The edge nears and I check for my heading on the steering wheel’s rotating compass globe—270 degrees. I’ll need a bearing of 263, so I angle left before giving a propulsion boost.

I watch the black slide closer. Once more, gunning the steam engine—here it comes.

My Rimbo sails over the side. With a lurching stomach, neck tight to the headrest . . . A smile creeps up. This next moment, right before the drop—I live for it. Despite the fear brewing in my head, my body goes giddy. The mobile hits the highest point of the arc.

Ain’t nothin’ but now.

For not even a fraction of a second, I’m weightless. I’d stay this way forever if I could, holding in my air like a balloon. ’Cept I’m no balloon.

My Rimbo begins to fall. Up and up, my stomach rises into my chest. Out of habit, I reach for my favorite button: ROCKIN’. Another pre–Wash Out classic spills from the speakers, this time chosen by Benny.

“Nice, B.” I laugh-snort into the mouthpiece. He’s passing me a not-so-secret message via the lyrics.

“Just want you to be careful, that’s all,” he answers, and the line goes quiet, just in time for the chorus.

Low rider, don’t use no gas now, low rider, don’t drive too fast
.

Ten feet over the second roof, I lean forward to keep the rear from bottoming out.

Too late I see it—the main gutter, smack where I’m about to land. My Rimbo skids
—You brackin’ idiot, how did you miss that?
One rear wheel in the gutter, I’m at a sideways slant. Now I’ve got to get outta the ditch.

I watch my water level drop even more as I step on the acceleration and then hit the propulsion button. This time, I give it everything. Full speed ahead, I angle the wheel toward the fourth roof instead of the third, ’cause I won’t be touching down there.

My first delivery may be on that roof, but I’m going over it.

The edge is nearer, nearer, and I forget how to breathe. Just this one drop, just one—

Then I’m hurtling over the side. In midair, I reach for the first box. I slide open the weight chute using my foot, and a gust of cold floods the pit.

I look down. Between my feet—drainage pipes. Here goes. I drop the box.

Like a vacuum, it blows through the chute, then out of sight behind my mobile. I crane my neck.
Land on the roof, just this one
.

And there it is—bouncing along the rooftop. Into the mic, “Drop-off one complete!” I burst, and exhale so hard, I can feel my lungs tugging together. It worked. . . . It worked.

Too soon, my stomach pitches, lungs sucked dry by the drop. I look down. Under me, Mad Ave—no, no, no. A good thirty feet too far.

Was my speed wrong?

More propulsion—head folded between my knees, I peer down the chute, willing the mobile on in my head. She listens. I watch as my Rimbo closes the gap. . . .

And forget to drop the second box.

“Brack!” I curse, teeth clenched. Fast, before landing, I chuck it through the opening. My Rimbo touches down, and a handful of gravel sprays into the pit. Pings my face, stings my tongue. I shut my trap with a whimper and look left.

Three feet over, I could’ve landing on metal paneling.

I realize something else: the open chute . . . it’s why I almost didn’t make it to the fourth roof. Air in the pit was dragging my Rimbo
—What are you, a rookie?
I scold, and cut the wheel at a hard right, for a heading of 340 degrees. Off the northeastern corner toward the fifth roof on my route I go, hating myself for not being more careful. I’m so in my head, I almost miss them—

Beamers . . . ? Only three hundred feet away. By Central Bay. Can’t be Ter, he’s probably at Quad Three by now. The mobile jumps from roof to roof, closer. Headed straight for me . . . This is not good. Flipping on the comm line. “Come in, come in, Benny—” I say into my mouthpiece. “You see what I’m seeing?”

He should have a clear view of this from the Empire Clock—I wait.

“I am, and you’re not alone. Four of you, four of them,” he tells me through static, but now I’m not paying attention. Rear first, I’m whipped down. My Rimbo bottoms out—I forgot to lean forward—and even my suspension system turns against me.

I curse myself yet again as the steering wheel throws itself to the left and my tires spin out beneath me.

“Did you just bottom out, Renata?” Benny asks.

Even through a headset, he knows.

It’s enough to nearly set me off. . . . Everything is going to pieces.

Then, like a Slinky on steroids, the shock coils decompress. Send my butt flying. I’m thrashed upward into the glass, without even my hair to ease the blow. A throbbing ache closes my eyes for me, and when I do open them, I still can’t see.

Before my Rimbo touches down again, I straighten the wheel. Where does the roof end?

Landing, I hammer on the brakes, eyes open. Whited-out vision turns to purple, to brown, then tall rectangles fill in my blind spots. Tall rectangles, and . . . something else. Like a bullet. Black. Beelining for my Rimbo, headlights blinding in the distance.

An Omni—

One of the Tètai.

But it’s too soon for things to go so wrong. . . . I’ve only made two drop-offs. In my chest, panic starts shredding my nerves. It turns me stupid, tempts me to look through the window. Just to make sure . . . it could be Derek, not Kitaneh or the others. But that’s a terrible idea—my Rimbo’s slowed to a standstill. I’ll be squashed. Clumsy, disoriented, I spin my torso in all directions trying to get my bearings even though my instincts are telling me to move, any direction.

Then I look down. On my steering wheel, the compass sphere has stopped revolving—at precisely the right heading. I’m arrowed toward my third drop-off.

The hardest on my route. I laugh. A belly-full whoop of a laugh. This small bit of fate . . . it’s like the universe is forgiving me for tonight’s muck ups. Keeping me afloat for the next jump. I’m reminded that it ain’t game over, not yet. I gun the steam engine and I don’t lift my foot. Not even as the tank dips below half.

My Rimbo plows ahead, aimed for the sloped plates. I’ll use them as ramps for picking up speed, but not because the next roof is far. Worse. The jump is a rise, not a drop. Meaning up. Glancing right, northwest, I search for the Omni—spot the headlights twenty feet away.

But it’s not Kitaneh in the driver’s seat.

Copper hair, sparkling and obvious despite the Omni windshield’s dark tint.

Derek? I don’t understand. . . . All those things he said—he could never hurt me—were they even true?

If he’s here to stop me . . .

The muscle of my heart wants to rip itself apart and fight, all at the same time.

I understood what he was saying before, outside the hospital. A part of me even agrees. People dying from a disease is horrible, but it’s nature. Sitting back, not trying to stop a genocide from happening? That’s an entirely different beast.

I don’t want to go against him. But I will.

“Come in, Ren—” Benny calls through my headset. “The others . . . something’s happened. I’m syncing you up again.”

A broken stream of static hits my ear, and below my tires I feel the incline. I hold down the rear propulsion, allowing for drag caused by the chute. It’ll burn a trail behind me. The Omni will see my path like I’ve drawn him a map.

Plating disappears. I’m riding on air.

And then . . . Kent’s voice: “No! Ter, you can’t head back—My dad . . . the vial!”

“I’ve got no choice. . . .” Ter answers. Screeching metal, then feedback. I can’t breathe for a moment—Is Ter hurt?—and then I hear his voice again. “I’m on three tires as it is—they took out my fourth. . . . I have to, man, I’m sorry.” More feedback, more metal, all of it high-pitched and grating.

Like in free fall, I feel my stomach drop, far far away. Not the others too . . .

“Dammit, Terrence. Jones . . . you can do it, you’re nor—” His voice cuts out. “Brack,” I hear him grunt. “What the—? Where’d the package go? It just disa—”

The other Tètai have got to be here too. . . .

I’ve still got a job to do. Let them come after me.

I shift my weight till my Rimbo’s nose up. The distance shrinks away. Thirty feet becomes twenty, then ten. Open chute—holding the third box, I wait. At five feet, my stomach knows what’s coming—the apex of the jump.

Last minute, I look around for the Omni. My skin itches; I can’t find it.

Eyes back on the chute. When the metal-plated roof is about seven feet below, I let go of the box.

Fountain of youth superserum—away.

Spinning around to watch it, I lean on the wheel and even out the nose. The box is sucked backward. It dips down, and I wait for it to hit the roof.

And wait.

And wait.

Meanwhile, my Rimbo lands easily on the copper plating, only a slight skid to grapple with. I kill the propulsion. The pit darkens. Why’d it get dark? My gut knots, and looking up, I see . . . an undercarriage?