Chapter 10 Rosabelle
Rosabelle
Blood runs fast down the side of my face, the wound fresh, still searing, from a close call with a direct shot to my head.
I duck for the fourth time in as many seconds as I dart behind a towering storage unit, my heart pounding as I home in on
a soldier just steps away.
First things first: I need to acquire a weapon.
I scramble up the side of the storage unit, knowing I have less than seconds to make a move with such a high level of exposure;
I hear shouts break out as I jump from the unit, drop-kicking my mark in the back. He falls to the ground with an audible
crack, but I tuck my knees too late and fall badly beside him, knifelike agony exploding in my left ankle. I suck in a breath
at the pain, then tug the automatic rifle out of his limp hands, staggering upright. I’m briefly lightheaded.
There was a time when I was better at this.
There was a time when I was stronger, healthier; when The Reestablishment wasn’t aggressively cutting my rations in a slow
drip of systematic starvation; when I ran rigorous, daily simulations, racking up tens of thousands of hours of backbreaking
training.
This was before they downgraded my assignments.
This was before they cut back my sims; before they declared me too weak to be worthy of my title.
I was regularly fed less for poor performance only to perform poorly because I was fed less. I was soon given no choice but
to accept occasional factory work as my body and soul were slowly, methodically dismantled. Forced to watch my sister die
a little more every day as my hands grew only weaker with shame.
But there was a time, not so long ago, when I was still useful to them.
Those were the years when Soledad still had hope they could get me connected to the Nexus; when they assumed the malfunction
of my brain was a solvable system glitch and not a massive liability. Back then, the tremors in my right arm were only occasional.
My muscles were better honed, my movements more refined, my reflexes faster.
Now, this version of me will have to do.
I haul the stolen weapon into my arms. It’s heavier than I expected, and takes me a moment to calibrate. I study the fallen
soldier as I drag myself out of sight, fairly certain he’s unconscious but not dead.
My finger trembles on the trigger. The only thing that hasn’t suffered much is my aim; I’ve always been a dead shot. My problem
now is that I don’t know how to miss.
Don’t kill, I remind myself. Don’t kill, don’t kill.
I manage to tear myself away, heart hammering like an addict trying to override old programming. My every instinct screams
at me to finish the job.
Finish the job so that Clara will have food.
Finish the job so that Clara will have medicine.
Finish the job so that Clara might have a fire.
Finish the job to keep her safe; finish the job to secure her future; finish the job so they might set us free—
In the privacy of my mind, I scream.
You’ve been dead inside for years, I remind myself.
Die, I tell myself.
Die.
It doesn’t help; I can’t seem to shut off all the way. I can’t access my mask, my bloodless facade—and I’m beginning to understand,
with breathtaking fear, exactly who to blame.
James has become my new weakness.
The mere sight of him motivates my heart to work harder, regenerating my life force almost against my will. I can feel him
leaving a mark on me, his name being freshly carved, letter by letter, into my skin.
No.
Not now.
Not now.
My head is pounding, my palms growing slick as my feelings spiral out of control. I grip the gun more firmly in my hands,
reading its ridges with my fingers. I’m here, where my feet are; here, where cold winds sweep mist and rain into the open
hangar, where the air is fresh and bracing, chilling my damp clothes. I steel myself and fall back on logic, hold fast to
reason—
I need to get home.
Just because I need to get home doesn’t mean I have to murder everyone on the way there. Killing is no longer my job. I don’t know who these people are; they might be James’s friends. They might be his family members.
I don’t know when that began to matter to me.
I hear boots before I see her, the giveaway granting me the second I need to pivot just as a soldier comes up on me from behind.
She’s inexperienced; I can tell by the way she hesitates, the way her eyes widen in surprise when she glimpses my costume.
I never hesitate.
I shoot her in the arm, then the leg, then order myself to stop, physically forcing my finger off the trigger. My right hand
trembles dangerously, my breaths coming in fast. I clench my teeth through the moment, shutting out her screams as she falls,
as I retreat. I remind myself that they have healers. She’ll be all right as long as she doesn’t bleed out for too long. She
might make it.
Don’t kill.
Don’t kill.
The words echo in my head as I move soundlessly, ignoring the spasms branching up my leg. I duck into the shadows, pressing
myself flat against the side of a boom lift, and attempt a fresh scan of the situation. From this vantage point I can’t be
precise about how many fighters I’m up against; based on the shadows I’m seeing I think I can safely estimate that there are
about twenty-five soldiers roaming the hangar.
That means I have to be patient.
I’ll need to maintain a defensive position, retreating over and over, taking them out only as they seek me out. Unlike the
citizens of the Ark, some of the rebels still have preternatural abilities. I can’t know what kinds of powers they have at
their disposal until it’s too late, which means I can’t risk assuming an offensive position until their numbers winnow. Only
when I’m certain I’ve cut down enough of their fighters can I risk making my move toward the center of the hangar—where the
jet remains untouched and exposed.
Shafts of ghostly moonlight illuminate the two rolling safety ladders on either side of the open doors, which were left unlatched
by soldiers doing their initial scans.
There’s no time for a new strategy.
I was never going to be able to fly this jet all the way back to the Ark. That was never the plan. I was only going to use
it like a weapon: take advantage of its bullet-resistant heft to get myself out of here. I only need to get far enough into
the sky and over open water so I might safely eject myself. The plane would be lost to the ocean; I would parachute-land as
best I could.
Best-case scenario, they assume I’m dead.
Worst-case scenario, I buy myself time to find a new bolthole, lose my shadows, scout out a new airbase. There’s no point
getting back to the Ark without the vial. Stealing a plane is a small task compared to what I know awaits me on a hunt for
that glass cylinder—because I have to imagine the rebels were at least smart enough to stash it in a secure location.
The trouble is, I don’t know enough about this place to hazard a reasonable guess as to its whereabouts. I need time to do reconnaissance before I can even compile a list of probable locations—
A soldier surges up on my left, making no effort to hide his footfalls, and he shoots before I even have a chance to lift
my weapon. I dive for the ground, bashing my elbow into a steel cabinet, pain ricocheting up my arm. I glimpse him in my periphery
and push through the agony, flipping onto my back to shoot him in the thigh, then the foot. He buckles, his cries echoing,
but even as he falls he manages to get off a few well-aimed shots. I roll over but not fast enough, hissing through my teeth
as a bullet nicks my right arm.
I take a fraction of a second to catch my breath.
I drag myself upright as the soldier struggles to regain his feet, catching the glimmer of an unusual, puzzle-piece pendant
hanging from a chain at his neck. He tries to stand but I get to him first, striking the side of his head with the rifle,
and I watch, chest heaving, as he slowly slides to the ground with a grunt.
I rock back on my feet, grimacing as fresh pain blooms through my injured ankle, but when I see his fingers still twitching
for his weapon, I kick it toward me and grab the strap, looping it quickly over my head.
Then I shoot him in the arm.
He chokes out a fresh cry and I tense, my finger uncertain on the trigger, wondering if maybe I shot him too many times.
Slow down, I tell myself, alarm constricting my chest. You can be gentle. You can be better. You—
I hear a storm of footsteps—fighters following the sound of their comrade’s cries—and I compartmentalize my own pain as I
push deeper into the shadows. I duck down behind a generator, take a breath, then take a position. I peer up over the ledge,
my gun poised at my eye line, searching for a target.
“Hey, this is fun, right?” someone whispers. “I think everyone is having fun. I love team-building exercises.”
I stiffen at the sound of his voice, my heart beating so hard I feel the ground shift beneath my feet. I pull back my position,
equal parts agony and fury as I turn to face him.