The cleaner air outside the hangar is like a splash of cold water. Prakesh takes a huge breath, letting the strip of urine-soaked cloth fall to the floor.
The workers push through a door ahead of him, exploding out of the corridor into a larger space. It’s an old weapons bay–there are empty racks everywhere, running floor to ceiling, some of them still carrying ancient ordnance, their labels cracked and faded. Computers line the wall, the screens black and dead.
By the time Prakesh gets there, the gunfire has started.
There are at least two guards, firing from behind one of the racks. Prakesh hits the ground, going down hard. He has no weapon, nothing to protect him. All he can do is stay down. The gunshots are deafening.
One of the workers takes a bullet, his arm almost torn from his shoulder. He collapses onto the floor, twitching, and Prakesh sees that it’s the man who wanted to take the bridge. He pushes himself away, rolling across the floor.
The shooting stops. There’s a split second where Prakesh thinks they’ve lost, that one of the guards is about to come round the corner and put a bullet through him. But then he hears Jojo’s voice. “L-l-let’s go!”
The rest of the workers roar in agreement, and he feels feet pounding on the metal surface. He tries to get up, but as he does so his hand slips in the blood pooled on the floor, and he crashes back down, knocking his chin on the metal plating.
Jojo pulls him up. He’s surprisingly strong. He and Prakesh stumble to the exit, and that’s when one of the racks gives way.
Its supports are riddled with bullet holes. It gives off a metallic screech as it comes down, collapsing in on itself, kicking up clouds of dust as it goes, spewing its cargo across the floor. Prakesh pulls Jojo back just in time.
The sounds of the crash die away, replaced by Prakesh’s ragged breathing. Their way to the passage beyond is blocked. A woman, the one who told Jojo that it was crazy to hit the fuel hangar, is staring at them through a gap in the debris, her eyes wide. Her lank hair hangs down her forehead in streaks of wet grey.
Prakesh moves to climb the wreckage, but Jojo grabs his shoulder. “There’s an-n-n-nother way r-round,” he says
He doesn’t give him a chance to respond–just plunges back the way they came, ducking into the passage. Prakesh takes one last look at the woman, and then follows.
Prakesh struggles to keep up with Jojo. He moves at a brisk pace, the rifle swinging back and forth. There’s an alarm blaring somewhere, distant but urgent, and he swears he can hear more gunfire, as if the ship has finally woken up to the threat inside it. At each junction and stairway, Jojo pauses for a split second before picking a path and heading down it. Within minutes, Prakesh is lost–he knows they’re heading deeper into the ship, but he has no clue where they are.
Eventually, he catches up to Jojo at the top of a set of narrow stairs, where he pauses a little longer than normal. “Hang on a second,” he says, gasping out the words.
“Gotta k-k-keep g-going,” Jojo says, starting down the stairs.
A few minutes later, they reach a T-junction in the corridor, marked by a rotating yellow light that casts strange shadows across the walls. Jojo stops, peering around the side of the junction, as if he senses something up ahead.
Prakesh stumbles to a halt, hands on his knees, blood pounding in his ears.
“Jojo,” he says.
“J-j-just g-gimme me a s-s-second.” He starts down the passage, then abruptly turns, heading back in the other direction.
Prakesh raises his head, and Jojo glances back at him. “I haven’t b-b-been d-down here b-before. B-b-but I th-think this is—”
“Wait,” says Prakesh. “How do we get out after we torch the fuel?”
“I t-t-told you. W-we g-get to the b-b-boats.”
“What if there aren’t enough? What if we get ambushed again?”
“W-w-won’t happen.” Jojo’s eyes are alive. “I b-b-been planning th-this for a l-long t-time. I’m g-gonna g-g-g-get out, and th-then I’m g-g-going back to D- to D—” His voice cuts off, and he swallows hard: “… Denali. Up n-n-n-north.”
“We can’t—”
“No.” Jojo’s tone of voice is almost pleading, as if he’s trying to make Prakesh understand. “I have to g-g-get out. M-m-my uncle c-c-can’t s-s-survive if I’m n-n-not there. He’s g-g-g-got a b-b-bad leg. I g-g-gotta find him.”
Prakesh puts a hand on the wall, breathing hard, forcing oxygen into his lungs. This is all happening too fast, he thinks. He assumed Jojo had a coherent plan, latched onto it, desperate to get out of this place. It’s a mistake that might get him killed. There’ll be no ordered exit, no regimented attack on their captors. Jojo doesn’t even know where he’s going. The whole thing has already gone to shit, and there’ll be more deaths by the time it’s done. He can’t let that happen. He won’t.
Jojo tilts his head. “Th-that was p-p-pretty clever b-b-back there,” he says, glancing down at the rifle. “W-w-w-with the sssss-st-st-stinker.”
“Thanks.” Prakesh doesn’t know what else to say.
Jojo grins, hefting the rifle and stepping into the corridor. “OK. I th-think I know w-where we are. Let’s—”
The bullet takes him in the side of the neck.