The Ward (43 page)

Covering the right half of the moonroof’s dome—the black bullet, sailing overhead. Derek’s Omni can fly. A steam-powered, 100 percent metal-clad aeronautical mobile.

Brack
.

When I turn, looking over my right shoulder, I pound my fist against the glass. The third box. Dangling in midair. It’s been caught in a net with magnets sewn into the wire meshing, which is attached to the Omni. Suddenly, I can’t move—my rib cage actually hurts my lungs. With my nose pressed to the right curve of the moonroof, I watch as the package floats away, like magic. It’s raised up and up, then into the mobile via the open chute.

Fifty vials, Fifty Avens. Gone. Just like that.

I can’t believe he’s doing this. . . . It’s worse than betrayal. He warned me. I should have known.

That don’t make it hurt less, though.

I need to try and stop it. Stop him.

But do I have time?
I can’t check my cuffcomm—I need both hands on the wheel. “Benny,” I call into the mic, knuckles tight to the wheel. “How long before the squadrons come through?”

A few moments later, “Twelve minutes,” he says. Then, “But, Ren, Terrence is back, and so is Jones—Kent . . . we don’t know where he is. But this is not a competition. No one made it to their last drop-off. It’s dangerous out there. I want you off in seven.”

Very rarely does he go so far as to try and tell me what to do, so I know he’s serious. Doesn’t mean I’ll listen, though. Depends on what I can do in seven minutes. I try to veer right, but my Rimbo refuses.

The metal groans—I’m jolted forward, thrown from the seat. Turning my head, I do a double take: the black Omni.

It’s behind me . . . ?

I look up—

It’s also above me. Now I’m really confused.

They must be tag-teaming, Derek and Kitaneh.

One Omni roars at my rear, gains speed. Next thing I know, it’s by my side, our metals screeching together. Sparks firework between us. That driver who wants to kill me . . . must be Kitaneh. She sideswipes my Rimbo so hard, she’s gotta be trying to flip it. Half the mobile lifts.

I look left, fuming. . . . Benny worked too hard on this job for me to watch it undone in a matter of seconds. But when I look through the glass at the shock of rusty, brassy hair . . .

I nearly choke.

It’s Derek.

I knew he might try to stop me. But this? It’s like all of a sudden he wants worse than that—he wants me dead. As I look again, though, I realize I’m not so sure. His features are off, somehow. The jaw is too square. Shoulders, too thick. This guy looks like Derek, but something is different.

So there’s a Derek look-alike trying to kill me to my left, and another black Omni overhead, who could be Derek or could be Kitaneh.

Out of nowhere, I feel my Rimbo being pushed down. I look up through the moonroof, and see the undercarriage of the other Omni staring back at me.

It’s keeping me from flipping over.

No way would Kitaneh try to help me, ever.

That must be Derek above. He’s trying to help me. . . .

For a moment, the realization almost undoes me. That he could be against the others . . . because of what I said. It feels too big, and I try not to think about what it means.

Turning once again to the front, I see a silver cord dangling—the netting’s metal tail. Smack in the middle of my windshield. The package. It’s dragging behind my mobile, skidding and throwing sparks of its own. So close, if my roof were open, I could reach for it myself.

Still gripping the wheel steady, my palms grow hot and begin to cramp. I accelerate, and watch my water tank drop to a third. The Derek look-alike accelerates. I pull back. So does he. He’s my echo—I can’t stay locked like this forever.

I rotate my left wrist to find my cuffcomm: nine minutes till the Blues get here. Four to finish my route. Assuming I take Benny’s warning.

In my head I do the math. My last drop-off lies a full five boardwalks west, not including diagonals. I can’t make two more. Not under six minutes. Not with Kitaneh and Derek around.

Out the back of the moonroof, I watch the copper box ricocheting behind the engine.

In nine minutes, those fifty people will be given a “cure”—a drug they believe will save them. The thought adds metric tons to my bones, my muscles. Like there’s something inside me so empty, so barren, that it actually has a weight. The fifty faces paint themselves against my mind, all in shades of Aven. This time, I look.

And then I decide.

I’m leaving it.

I step on the pedal and flip the propulsion boost. The combination of a steam engine plus the thrust sends my Rimbo barreling forward. Barbs of guilt prod, but I don’t try to pull away. I feel them all. They deserve that much.

The Omni overhead lifts up, the other trailing behind.

With the building’s edge in sight, I hold the wheel steady, then race nearer and nearer to it. Then, I’m over it.

In midair, I get my bearings by looking straight ahead to the West Isle, and above the electric city, clouds muddy together in oranges and purples, all ink-tinged. Smoke from the riot still hides the tallest buildings, and a wispy fog rolls in across the Strait.

Through it, I can see white specks, probably from people’s windows, but . . .

The specks—they’re moving.

Just as I’m about to land on the seventh roof—

“Ren! Come in, Ren!” Benny’s voice is tinny in my ear. A stream of white noise spits from my earpiece. He gives me no time to answer—“Get out, now,” he says. “The DI . . . they’re here!”

They’re early.

I touch down on the seventh roof, metal clunking as it rebounds. Through the fog, what were specks in the sky moments ago are quickly becoming a full-on light show. Vibrations shudder my mobile, make me clamp my jaw tight with understanding: it’s not the squadron with the governor’s cure. Those are straight Blues helis, and they’re circling the Ward in swarms.

Correction: circling
me
in swarms.

50

11:42 P.M., SUNDAY

T
he helis fly out of the mud-colored clouds as if they were born there. I feel acid-filled. I’m poison that I want them to drink up. In my ear, our signals mix—my mic shrieks, they’re flying so close now. Several hundred feet away, their high beams and spotlights cast broken circles everywhere—the sickhouse rooftops . . . they’re landing on each of ’em and gathering the packages.

I’m cut off from my two last drop-offs. The final sickhouses on my route.

Now at a standstill, I glance over my shoulder. The two Omnis—can’t lose sight of ’em. Scanning the quadrant, I find them five bridges southeast. Two black mobiles and a fountain of orange sparks. One races over the planked suspension bridge, the other hovers alongside. Every time one Omni jerks forward, makes like it’s about to head west—for me—the other mobile cuts them off.

Derek’s been keeping the other Omni away.

In the sky, spinning propellers remind me that I’m a sitting duck. But I don’t move, yet. I watch them there—one by one I count the ways in which I hurt. The thick skin of all my angers turns hot. Fighting that cloud, not stopping—it’s about more than just tonight.

It’s about my life.

And not just mine, all of ours. Being told we’re getting a cure when, in fact, we are getting a death sentence. Funneling rainwater from our rooftops, when across the Strait, the wealthy buy fresh black market.

It’s about being hated for no reason.

I face the cloud. I won’t give up, not now.

Flooring the pedal, I shoot toward the swarm. My fingers shake as I grip the wheel, and I can feel the burn at my cheeks.

Just as I meet the end of the roof, a high beam grazes my side. They’ve seen me. My headset shakes static in my ear. I hear a
click-click-click
-ing, like someone changing stations, then more static, like all the other channels have died.

Leaving only one.

“It’s over,” Chief growls through my earpiece.

Throwing my wheel right, dodging out of the beam’s way, I see my heading for the next is now out of whack.

My Rimbo careens over the building’s edge, and Chief’s voice is back in my head. “Tell your boy Kent that Governor Voss would personally like to thank him,” he says.

“I don’t understand. . . .” I whisper into the mic, stomach muscles cementing together, and not just ’cause I’m currently sailing over a boardwalk. “My boy Kent?”

“He called you in, told us you were alive.” Chief snorts. “Wanted to see that his father got the stuff. Didn’t exactly turn down the reward money, either.”

Of course not.

I imagine pulling him to pieces, limb from limb. We were never on the same team. Stupid of me to think that we were.

Then, steely through the comm, “Last chance, Dane. Where can the governor locate another spring?” Chief Dunn asks.

It’s a question I’ll never answer.

“I’ll take my last chance,” I say into my mic, looking ahead.

Why haven’t I landed already?
Right, left, I look . . . and I see nothing. No roof to catch my fall. Not even a building facade that I could aim for. I’ve completely overshot my next roof.

I’m in free fall.

Buildings tower past. They grow larger. Wider.

Punching my fist to the steering wheel—it’s over. It’s over. I can’t make the other drop-offs. A curling, constricting rage forces its way out my throat. How do you know when to give up? How can this be the end?

Like yawning forever, I’m thrown down into the center of the earth. My stomach wants out of my body so badly, the drop has made me sick. I can’t even relax my jaw; my tongue’s latched to the roof of my mouth. This is the longest jump I’ve ever made, and still I’m falling.

When my Rimbo finally hits Broad Walk, it thuds and screeches, clobbering the planks. They groan and smoke under my tires, and the sharp, coated smell of rubber wafts in, even though the weight chute is closed.

“Have it your way,” Dunn says.

A spotlight pins me. I’m a fly needled to a wall.

I watch a heli carve through the black and glance at my water tank—almost empty, but I floor it anyway. Under my tires, the wood rattles and shakes, not made for mobile travel. Jamming on the brakes, I spin the wheel to face east again, closer to Mad Ave.

I need to hide. Right now, I’m just too easy a target.

As I’m wheeling down the boardwalk, time turns to sludge. The seconds rush by, but minutes take forever. Then, the first net falls.

I remember from when they netted me before. The edges flap like impatient wings. Electronic, motion-detecting pulses keep the nets open, and magnets woven into them are attracted to any mobile’s steel frame. They’ll jam your props if you get caught.

I turn the steering wheel left and push RETRACT, folding the wheels into the underbelly. My Rimbo hurtles in an arc off Broad, and within moments it’s living up to its name. It skips along the surface of the water, and I flip on the propellers to give a boost.

Once I’m closer to the end of the gutter, I risk looking behind me: about a hundred feet up, and one block over, I watch the net float down, looking for motion from my Rimbo. When an easy wind sways the suspension bridge, the net gets caught on the zigzags, its motion sensors confused.
Don’t watch—go
.

I steer left under the Mad Ave boardwalk, so I’m out of the helis’ sight. Since the walkways were built with tides in mind, the canals are high. My Rimbo skips under the walk, leaving me a good foot of clearance between the roof at its highest skip and the planks. Can’t keep this up though—it’s not made for so long on the water. I weave through two pylons, and check to see if the air is clear. Tonight, though, everything is bright. Two flashlights shine on the Ward: the moon, and that heli’s spotlight flooding the canal with light.

My Rimbo’s bounces begin to fall short, each one closer than the next. It slows even as I steer, rallying the bullet blood in my veins. I need to dock it fast—

Forget it. Just get out
.

I’ll have to go by foot from here. It’s my best chance for avoiding the heli above. My Rimbo slows even more. When it makes its final skip, I pop the roof and reach up. Clutching the support beams on the underside of the boardwalk, I climb out, dropping into the water.

I don’t have a chance to feel the cold.

“Miss Dane—” a voice crackles in my ear.

Not the chief—this voice is too subtle, too many undercurrents. Governor Voss.

“Since you are not willing to share the spring’s location with me, I thought it only fair to withhold a location from you. Something equally valuable. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”

The hairs on my neck know what he’s about to say before my mind makes any sense of it. “No, sir,” I answer, still clinging to the boardwalk’s beams. But my stomach knows the feeling before the drop. Before the downhill.

“One thing of value for another. Only fair.” The governor pauses, and I hear him tapping. “I’m referring to the girl you call your ‘sister.’”

The edges of my eyesight go black. “You have Aven,” I whisper. Like burning, the black curls at the periphery, working its way in, until all that’s left is the memory of what was there. My body tries to extinguish itself, but no amount of salt water will ever be enough. “You can’t hurt her. . . .”

“But clinical research is so important to understanding the spring’s exact properties. Recall my ancestor’s letter. Entire limbs . . . regrown. I imagine it’s painful—the loss, and the regeneration.”

He wouldn’t. . . .

Behind the smoke and blur, I look for her.
Where are you? Where are you?
My only answer comes from the wailing heli as it hovers, waits, and the animal noises I make that have no name.

Outside of me, I hear tapping. The governor—through the comm. “Well, well, well. It’s nearly one a.m.. The evening has been . . . very successful,” he says lightly. “You, Miss Dane, have exceeded all my expectations.”

I shake my head. Where are the squadrons? “What do you mean . . . ?” I mumble, pressing my fists into my eye sockets, fighting them.

“What do I mean . . .” he repeats, like a riddle. “Honestly, Renata. Democide? Really? Hardly the best way to win over the people. Especially not after this morning’s riot. I’d thought, this time, perhaps the Tètai would try and stop me. They did not. Smart. You, however . . . you accomplished for me far more than I ever could have on my own.