I’ve ever seen.
“You won’t do it,” I say.
“But what else will I do?” he says. “You think I’ve told you everything? Test me, and you’ll suffer in ways you can’t even imagine.”
With that, he closes the door in my face.
The sound of the door shutting fades away. I look around me: the walls in the corridor outside Knox’s surgery are caked over with rust. A beam of light cuts across the darkness ahead of me, picking out dust motes hanging in the air.
I close my eyes, listening hard. I can just make out the cries of the silkworm merchant, far in the distance.
With my heart in my mouth, I go from a walk, to a jog, to a sprint. I expect to feel the devices Knox put inside me – in my head, I picture them grinding up against the bone, making themselves felt with every step. But he was right: they don’t stop me moving. Not even a little. There’s stiffness, and the pain is still there, only partially dulled by the drugs, but that’s all. It’s only when I hit the corridor with the red graffiti that I stop, one hand on the wall, nausea doubling me over.
This isn’t happening. It can’t be. Knox is lying. There’s nothing inside you .
But I only have to focus on my knees to realise that that isn’t true. It’s not just the stiffness: there’s a pressure , a feeling that wasn’t there before.
I stand up straight, breathing deeply, taking my hand off the wall. The dust sticks to my fingertips, and the edge of my palm.
Write it down .
How could I not have thought of that? I can’t talk about what’s happened to me out loud, not with him listening in over SPOCS, but I can write it down – hell, I could use the dust on the wall if I had to. I could find Carver, or Royo, and tell them. After all, Knox can’t see what I’m doing, and if I keep talking while I do it …
Then I remember what he said. That if he found out that I told anyone he’d blow the bombs. And then go to work on whoever I told.
Can I risk that? Can I put other people in danger?
Not yet. If it comes down to it, if time starts running out, then I’ll tell someone. But for now, this is on me to handle.
I make myself focus. Okwembu. Just the thought of her – of what she did – causes a little bubble of hatred to rise up through me. Sometimes I go days without thinking about her, but she keeps coming back, like a cut on the roof of my mouth that I can’t stop touching with the tip of my tongue.
I clench my hand into a fist. It’s still on the wall, and my fingernails scrape across the metal. I pull it away, tiny jolts of pain shooting up my fingers, and jog away down the corridor, thinking about where I have to go next, and hating myself for it.
It doesn’t take me long before I reach the max security brig. I have to work hard to convince the guards outside that I need to get in – there are eight of them, wearing full body armour. Can’t say I blame them. There have been plenty of pissed-off people trying to get in, to take revenge for what the occupant put Outer Earth through.
But, for once, my reputation helps. The guards know me, they know what I’ve done, and they know my history with the person inside. It helps that I can fabricate a plausible reason to be there: I make out like it’s to do with the Recycler Plant, that we need to make absolutely sure that it had nothing to do with her .
The inner door opens up into a narrow corridor. There are four cells in this particular brig, two on either side, spaced at wide intervals. The lights are harsh, not even letting a shadow escape, and the frosty air bites through my clothes. It’s easy to find the cell I need. It’s the only one that’s occupied.
I reach the cell, and see her lying on the bed, her arms under her head. I rap hard on the transparent plastic covering the front.
Janice Okwembu rises up on her elbows, staring at me.
18
Riley
“Ms Hale,” Okwembu says, moving to a sitting position on the bed.
The last time I saw her was in the
“You won’t do it,” I say.
“But what else will I do?” he says. “You think I’ve told you everything? Test me, and you’ll suffer in ways you can’t even imagine.”
With that, he closes the door in my face.
The sound of the door shutting fades away. I look around me: the walls in the corridor outside Knox’s surgery are caked over with rust. A beam of light cuts across the darkness ahead of me, picking out dust motes hanging in the air.
I close my eyes, listening hard. I can just make out the cries of the silkworm merchant, far in the distance.
With my heart in my mouth, I go from a walk, to a jog, to a sprint. I expect to feel the devices Knox put inside me – in my head, I picture them grinding up against the bone, making themselves felt with every step. But he was right: they don’t stop me moving. Not even a little. There’s stiffness, and the pain is still there, only partially dulled by the drugs, but that’s all. It’s only when I hit the corridor with the red graffiti that I stop, one hand on the wall, nausea doubling me over.
This isn’t happening. It can’t be. Knox is lying. There’s nothing inside you .
But I only have to focus on my knees to realise that that isn’t true. It’s not just the stiffness: there’s a pressure , a feeling that wasn’t there before.
I stand up straight, breathing deeply, taking my hand off the wall. The dust sticks to my fingertips, and the edge of my palm.
Write it down .
How could I not have thought of that? I can’t talk about what’s happened to me out loud, not with him listening in over SPOCS, but I can write it down – hell, I could use the dust on the wall if I had to. I could find Carver, or Royo, and tell them. After all, Knox can’t see what I’m doing, and if I keep talking while I do it …
Then I remember what he said. That if he found out that I told anyone he’d blow the bombs. And then go to work on whoever I told.
Can I risk that? Can I put other people in danger?
Not yet. If it comes down to it, if time starts running out, then I’ll tell someone. But for now, this is on me to handle.
I make myself focus. Okwembu. Just the thought of her – of what she did – causes a little bubble of hatred to rise up through me. Sometimes I go days without thinking about her, but she keeps coming back, like a cut on the roof of my mouth that I can’t stop touching with the tip of my tongue.
I clench my hand into a fist. It’s still on the wall, and my fingernails scrape across the metal. I pull it away, tiny jolts of pain shooting up my fingers, and jog away down the corridor, thinking about where I have to go next, and hating myself for it.
It doesn’t take me long before I reach the max security brig. I have to work hard to convince the guards outside that I need to get in – there are eight of them, wearing full body armour. Can’t say I blame them. There have been plenty of pissed-off people trying to get in, to take revenge for what the occupant put Outer Earth through.
But, for once, my reputation helps. The guards know me, they know what I’ve done, and they know my history with the person inside. It helps that I can fabricate a plausible reason to be there: I make out like it’s to do with the Recycler Plant, that we need to make absolutely sure that it had nothing to do with her .
The inner door opens up into a narrow corridor. There are four cells in this particular brig, two on either side, spaced at wide intervals. The lights are harsh, not even letting a shadow escape, and the frosty air bites through my clothes. It’s easy to find the cell I need. It’s the only one that’s occupied.
I reach the cell, and see her lying on the bed, her arms under her head. I rap hard on the transparent plastic covering the front.
Janice Okwembu rises up on her elbows, staring at me.
18
Riley
“Ms Hale,” Okwembu says, moving to a sitting position on the bed.
The last time I saw her was in the
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