Chapter 16 Rosabelle
Rosabelle
Chapter 16
I don’t allow myself to panic.
I shift gears, manually overriding preset controls in order to activate the rotors. When the blades finally catch, whipping the air at a satisfying clip, I push the throttle forward to full capacity, straightening the dying aircraft just inches before it kisses water. We bump and skid along the tide, water lashing the frame with the force of a knife, but before long the curve of a distant coastline comes into view.
Still, my relief is short-lived.
The helicopters aren’t far behind, three of them appearing in the distance, firing more warning shots that whiz dangerously past our heads, occasionally dinging the metal body. The only thing keeping us from certain death is the fact that they want James alive; otherwise they’d take us out with ease. If I allow them to get close enough, a sniper will put a bullet through my throat before whisking James back to base—where they’ll no doubt recalibrate under Klaus’s guidance. Right now I’m running on adrenaline and the power of a small pilot light: the promise Klaus made me in the cradle.
Complete this mission to satisfaction, Rosabelle, and we will set you and your sister free.
I’m monitoring battery levels, trying to squeeze as much life out of this dented carcass as possible, but I can feel the motor giving out. We’re almost out of time.
“Keep your foot on the accelerator,” I tell James, shouting to be heard above the clamor. “And hold down the throttle.” I climb over him again, returning to the passenger seat before overriding the user interface, typing prompts furiously into the command line.
“What are you doing?” James shouts back, taking over as instructed. “We’ve got maybe a few minutes left before this thing is deadweight. We need to jump.”
“I know,” I call out. “I’m trying to buy us more time.”
I’m still desperately running commands, hoping the aircraft’s computer has sufficient power to execute complex functions. Only when the chopper gives an unsettling jolt do I breathe a quick sigh of relief. Then, quickly, I unlatch the glove compartment and find what I’m looking for: a compact tool kit.
“Hey—wait—tell me what’s going on—”
I stand up on the seat and get to work, dismantling parts of the fuselage in order to access the battery storage. A couple of excruciating minutes later the blades pick up speed and the chopper ascends several feet in the sky. Relieved and exhausted, I sink back into my seat, ignoring the tremble in my right arm as I snap the tool kit shut. I allow myself a second to close my eyes and breathe, relishing the relative quiet. Now that we’re not clipping the water every other second, the deafening noise has settled.
“Okay, what the hell did you do?” James demands. “The choppers fell back and the flight deck shut down. No one is trying to kill us and none of the screens are working.”
Reluctantly, I open my eyes. “I ran a simulation and rerouted the power source.”
“Explain this to me like I’m an idiot.”
I feel an urge to laugh at that, except that I haven’t laughed in so long the compulsion surprises me. Bothers me.
Instead I say, “There are different kinds of choppers— civilian grade and military grade. They look different, but people don’t realize that most of these aircraft have similar programming—and use the same computer chips. The civilian models just have massive security restrictions.” I tilt my head at him. “So I tricked the computer into thinking it was a military chopper.”
“What does that mean?”
“I unlocked stealth mode.”
James’s eyes widen, a flash of respect quickly displaced by suspicion. He sits back in his seat. “What about the flight deck?” he says, nodding at the dead screens. “How are we airborne right now?”
I turn away, studying a crescent of shorn metal around the windshield. “There are two battery packs. A big one for the motor and a smaller one for everything else—monitors, sensors, air-conditioning, locking mechanisms—that sort of thing. The secondary battery isn’t as powerful, of course, but it wasn’t damaged and appears to be near full capacity. It might be enough to get us to shore. As long as our speed remains constant, I’m hopeful we’ll reach the coastline of The New Republic in about thirty minutes. We might not have to swim at all.”
James says nothing for so long I finally look up.
He’s staring at me. Stonily silent.
I avert my eyes again. “You can’t see our flight path on-screen anymore, but I’ve directed the chopper to pilot itself to our destination,” I add, feeling uncomfortable now. I nod at his injuries. “I thought you’d appreciate a break from operating the vehicle. Considering the state you’re in.”
When he continues to say nothing, I reach underneath my seat and unlatch the emergency kit, hefting it onto my lap. I tap the metal case. “There are life vests in here, in case everything fails and we need to jump. But I thought we could use the remaining flight time to deal with your wounds. Your legs seem to be healing; those injuries must’ve been a result of DEWs. But you still have a bullet lodged in your left tricep. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed.”
“I’ve noticed,” he says, shifting. “What the hell is a DEW?”
“Directed-energy weapon.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Try again.”
“Laser guns.”
James laughs, but the sound is hollow. Nerves snake through me, and I distract myself by releasing the snaps on the kit.
“Wow,” he says. “First she kills me, then she cares for me. Everything about this scenario is believable. Consistent.”
I tense.
I don’t know why his derision bothers me. I’ve spent most of my life perfecting a perception of myself. I’ve never wanted anyone other than Clara to imagine me capable of emotion. I should be pleased he thinks I’m cold and inhuman. Instead, it makes me feel ill.
I rifle through the medical supplies, searching for scissors and antiseptic. “Do you—”
“How did you know how to do that?” he says, pointing to the ceiling. “How’d you know how to reroute the power supply? How are you capable of genius-level computer hacking? How’d you know where the emergency kit was? How’d you know there were life vests on board? How are you so familiar with the tech and mech of this aircraft? And while we’re asking important questions: What, exactly, is the purpose of your mission? Because you’re clearly much more than a serial killer. You’re some kind of highly trained operative, and I’m going to give you one chance to prove me wrong before I punt you into the ocean.”
I go uncomfortably still. This is my own fault. I should’ve anticipated this. I should’ve anticipated the pitfalls of proximity.
I underestimated him.