Tracer (20 page)

The next three people I speak to act the same as Madala. In one case a merchant I’ve had a good relationship with in the past tells me angrily to never speak to him again. Nobody tells me why. At first, I think it’s just because they don’t want to trade away food or don’t have anything
they need transported, but after a while confusion gives way to fear, and then to a sickening dread.

Darnell said he’d recruited people. What if they think I’m one of them?

I have to get out of here, now. I slip between a pile of crates and a stall piled high with battery cases, heading towards the exit. I’m hoping that something will work out, that I won’t
have to come back to the Nest empty-handed,
but I’m getting more and more glares as I pass by. I keep my head down, and keep walking.

Someone steps into my path, blocking out the light. A bald man, with a nasty, thickened scar on his neck, wearing a soiled T-shirt and old denim pants. His arrival is so sudden that I almost crash into him.

“You,” he says, and his voice is tinged with malice. “We know what you’re doing.”

I stare at him
blankly, his words not registering.

He spits angrily, a thick gob of saliva spattering a nearby crate. “You killed a lot of people today. And you walk in here like we wouldn’t notice.”

“Hey,” I raise my hands, startled. “I don’t know what you think I did, but I didn’t kill anybody.”

“You’re one of them,” he says. “The Sons of Earth. I heard you got Darnell caught just to keep people occupied
while you planted the bombs. That’s what I heard.” His voice has become a low growl.

“I didn’t. I’m not!” I say. “I’m just a tracer. I carry cargo.”

His eyes narrow again, and he steps towards me. I move back, and bump into something solid and unyielding. The crowd has closed in around me, trapping me in a narrowing circle.

The man behind me places a hand on my shoulder, and I whirl around,
throwing a punch in his direction. He swings his head to the side, and my fist glances off his ear. Then the crowd is on me, hands everywhere, grabbing and pulling and yanking at my pack and screaming obscenities in my face.

I lash out, but it’s like fighting air. The crowd is a single being, a hive-mind, a monster with many hands and thousands of fingers. I’ve seen what happens to people who
get taken by a mob. I swing my arms even more wildly, desperately trying to punch my way out, shouting for someone, anyone. But there
is no help, and I’m lifted above the crowd, hands gripping my arms and legs. I’m propelled towards the back of the market, and at one point my left leg is pulled down, twisted by a dozen hands. I cry out in agony, and throw my foot out.

The movement causes the
crowd ahead of me to sway. They’re tightly packed, pushing against each other to try and get a hand on me, and they collapse in a heap of tangled limbs. The bodies carrying me shudder. The hands lose their grip and I’m thrown forwards onto the pile of people. I push frantically against them, trying to force my way up, but then more hands grip me from behind, more people bellow in anger.

Someone
grabs me. It’s Madala, his face a mask of fear. I’m certain he’s with them, that he’s trying to hurt me too, but then I see the urgency in his eyes, and then he’s hurling me forwards, away from the angry crowd.

“Run!” he yells, and then the monster grabs him, hands pulling him inwards. I bolt, terror pricking at my sides as I jump across a nearby table and smash through a pile of discarded boxes.
Behind me, Madala cries out, a horrifying wail which nearly brings me to a halt. I’m desperate to go back for him, but I keep running, and his wails follow me, growing steadily fainter.

Somehow, I come out of the crowd facing the front of the market, and I sprint towards the doors. Behind me, I can hear parts of the beast detaching, giving chase. There are no cries from Madala now. My pack is
gone, my jacket hanging on by a single sleeve. I pull my arm into the other as I run, then drop into a roll under a table, coming out the other side as my pursuers crash into it, swearing and screaming. My lungs are burning, and a stitch grips my side in a ring of iron. But I keep sprinting, and then suddenly I’m out of the market, the cries of the monster growing fainter behind me.

How can they
possibly believe that I’m a part of it? Someone
must have told them. Someone said something, and the people on Outer Earth, desperate for justice, jumped on it.

No time to think about that now. If the people in the market think I’m one of the Sons of Earth, then chances are others will too. I have to get out of the corridors, get somewhere safe. And people know where the Nest is, so I can’t go
there. I’ve got to find somewhere else. I look back down the corridor, swearing under my breath.

Movement. I swing round, my fists clenched, ready to fight. Yao steps forward out of the shadows, her hands up. “Easy, Riley. Simmer down a little.”

Kev steps in behind her, his face grave.

“Listen, you have to believe me,” I say. “I’m not one of them.”

“We know,” says Kev, his eyes calm.

“Come
on,” says Yao. “It can’t be that bad. How many are we talking here?”

“Everyone. All of them. They all …” I’m breathing too hard, and one of the breaths becomes a half-sob.

Without a word, Kev hands me his pack; his water bag is full, and I suck in the water as fast as I can, slaking the ever-present thirst. “I have to get somewhere safe,” I say, wiping my mouth. “Any ideas?”

Kev shakes his
head, but then his eyes light up. “Near the Chengshi border.”

Yao whirls to face him. “Kev! We were keeping that for emergencies.”

“It’s an emergency.”

She huffs. “Fine. One of the Level 3 corridors, near the habs. The conduits in the floor should be OK, and we stashed some water there a while ago. You should be able to hide out for a while.”

“How do I get there?”

“Head down on that level
until you come to a power box on the wall. It’s the closest to the start of the corridor. A few steps on from that, you’ll see a trapdoor in the floor. It’s easy to miss, but it’s there.”

I’m about to thank them, but then something bounces off the floor nearby. It’s a chunk of twisted scrap metal, and the man who threw it is at the end of the corridor, yelling behind him: “Found her! She’s here!”

“If you want to fight them, we’ll stay with you,” says Yao quietly, without looking at me. Her eyes are fixed on a point in the distance, her fists clenched.

I want to say yes. More than anything, I don’t want to be alone right now. And I’m not just scared. I’m angry. I want fists to meet flesh and nails to tear and scratch, and to show these people that I am
not
who they think I am.

But I can’t.
Even with three of us, we won’t be able to fight them all off. And I can’t let the Twins get hurt. Not because of me. Not again.

Almost imperceptibly, I shake my head. Yao catches the gesture, glances in Kev’s direction, and dives to the side. Kev grabs me, and he too starts yelling. “Got her! She’s over here!” I’m too startled to respond, but then he theatrically hurls himself backwards, as
if pushed off. A performance like that from someone like Kev almost makes me laugh out loud, but the laugh dies on my lips when I see his expression. It’s the same one that Madala had before he was swallowed up. Kev remains silent, his eyes implore me to do only one thing:

Run
.

There are more people at the far end now, running towards me, screaming with mad hatred. With one lingering look back
at Kev, I take off, bolting down the corridor, away from the monster.

I don’t know how long I run for. The corridors are endless, stretching off into the distance, punctuated by galleries filled with noise and anger. I run, and run, and run.

It’s not long before I manage to lose my pursuers. But I can’t lose the rumour about me being involved. It’s spread through the station like a virus, infecting everyone. Every time I think I’ve got ahead of it, that
I’ve reached a level or a corridor where people don’t know who I am, there’s an angry shout from behind me. More people chasing me, more crowds wanting me dead. When I do eventually slow to a halt, my chest heaving, it takes me a moment to figure out where I am.

I’ve overshot the border somewhere. After a while, the corridors blur into one another, an endlessly unspooling road of black metal
and flickering lights. I come to a stop, resting my hands on my hips, head down, sucking in great gasps of air. The run has pushed my body to the limit. Thirst and hunger tear at me. If I don’t find Kev’s stash soon, I’m finished. I need to get my bearings. Work out which level I’m on.

I force myself to move, pleading with my exhausted body
to hold on just a little bit longer. Heading back the
way I came, I hit the stairwell; it’s crowded, filled with nervous energy, but I keep my head down and this time nobody stops me. It occurs to me that there are other tracer crews who might help me – or at least, who won’t attack me on sight. People like the Cossacks or the Area Boys probably won’t be too pleased to see me – they’re no fans of the Devil Dancers – but maybe I can find someone from
D-Company. They’ve never really given a damn about anything that didn’t have something in it for them, but they know me, and might give me shelter.

I can’t waste time hunting for them, though, and it doesn’t take long to find the Twins’ trapdoor. It’s exactly where Yao said it would be, and mercifully, there’s nobody around to watch me open it. It’s heavy, rusted with age, and it takes some time
and a lot of noise to pull upwards. I’m worried that the screeching is going to bring curious onlookers, but in the end nobody comes, and I manage to slip through into the conduit below the passage.

It’s tiny, barely big enough for me to crouch in. I can feel thick dust underneath my feet. Spaces below the floor tend to be dirtier and nastier than ones you reach through the ceiling. Darker, too;
I have to sit for some time before my eyes become accustomed to the gloom. There are thick electrical cables running along the corners, and one digs uncomfortably into my ass. But I’m not moving. I’m still. My quaking body sends up waves of relief.

I hear footsteps on the floor above me, booming through the tight conduit, but they don’t stop, vanishing into the distance. I realise I’ve been holding
my breath, and let it out in a long, slow exhale. The breath causes a puff of dust to burst up. I have to force myself not to cough. But I can see now, and almost immediately I spot the steel canteen propped against the wall. Not for the first time, I send a silent thank you winging in the Twins’ direction.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, I drink deeply from the canteen. The water is warm
and slightly stale, but it soothes my parched throat. I have to force myself not to drink it all in one go, reminding myself that I might have to be here for a little while.

Amira must be looking for me by now. She would have found out what happened in the market, and hopefully the Twins managed to escape and tell her where I was headed. But she might as well be a million miles away. Her last
words to me, the irritation on her face, come hurtling back. What if I never see her again? Or Prakesh? The Twins? I’d probably even be grateful to see Aaron Carver.

For the first time in years, I feel truly alone.

I set the water down slowly, trying to lessen the loud tang of metal on metal. I lean my head back against the side of the conduit, my eyes closed. I have to think. Work something
out. There’s got to be some way I can convince people I had nothing to do with any of it.

It’s some time before I open my eyes. Almost immediately, I start cursing myself for falling asleep – how long was I out? – but then I realise the pain in my legs and sides is almost gone. I can’t stretch my legs out too far in the tunnel, but even an experimental flex feels good.

Above me, the station
is quiet. There’s a distant rumbling as some machine or other kicks into gear, but otherwise it doesn’t sound like there’s anybody around. I risk a peek, pushing up the trapdoor above me just a fraction, wincing as the metal squeals.

The corridor is deserted. I drop back below, and take another sip of the brackish water.

There’s something I’m not seeing here. Every time I try to get a hold of
it in my mind it slips away, falling just out of reach. Grace Garner, Marshall Foster, Arthur Gray, Oren Darnell … they’re
all connected, to be sure, but how? There’s some big element of this puzzle missing, and somehow, I can’t shake the feeling that Garner has information that could stop this whole thing in its tracks. I don’t know if Darnell is after her – or if he even knows she exists yet.
All I can do is get to her.

Finding her means going back into Gardens. And walking into Gardens means going right onto what used to be Darnell’s turf. But it’s the only way to the Air Lab. There’s no other option.

I drain the water – with no pack, there’s no real way to carry it if I want my hands free – and hoist myself into the corridor above. Fortunately, it’s still deserted, and I manage
to get a good head of speed heading towards Gardens. I’ve already got the route I plan to take in my mind, one which sticks to the upper levels, away from the main public areas. I’ll cut through the corridors around the furnaces – since the station was thrown into a total panic, there’s less chance that there’ll be any people there. I can take the topmost catwalk in the galleries – no people walking
above me, which means less chance of being spotted.

I’ve been running for less than five minutes, having just exited the stairwell up into the Level 6 corridor, when another ferocious thirst kicks in. My throat goes dry and lifeless almost instantly, and when I swallow, a sharp pain rips through it. I slow down, try to get some saliva flowing in my mouth, but it just makes it worse.

Damn it,
why now?

I keep my speed down, trying to use as little energy as possible in each stride. But the thirst just increases, a burning desire for liquid that wraps lead weights around my feet. The last time I felt anything like it, I’d just finished a multi-stage cargo run which took me through four sectors and lasted about five hours. There’s hardly anybody around the furnaces, and those I do see
barely glance at me. I’m running past one of the
open doors when I hear it: the distinctive gush and spray of a water point as someone fills a bottle or a cup. With a pack and full water tank on my back I’d hardly notice it, but now it’s like someone flicking a torch on and off in a dark room.