Carver crosses the fifteen feet in an instant, driving a fist into the guard’s face.
The man crumples, his legs collapsing under him, his gun clattering to the floor. I barely notice. I’m already past Carver, skidding to my knees next to Prakesh.
I can’t see the bullet hole. There’s too much blood. Prakesh looks at me–there’s a momentary flare of recognition, and then his eyes close, and they don’t open again.
I fumble for his hand, gripping it hard, willing him to squeeze back. Nothing. I can hear footsteps around me, more than just Carver and Koji, and the corridor is suddenly filled with voices. But I can’t look up. Carver has his hands on Prakesh’s chest, hunting for the wound, trying to put pressure on it.
And that’s when the voice inside me speaks.
I don’t want to listen. But the voice is everywhere now, filling me with white-hot light, the anger burning away everything else.
This isn’t just about the man who shot him, it says. It isn’t about the people on this ship. It’s about the chain of events that led you here, to this exact spot. There’s someone at the start of that chain of events. She’s responsible–for everything. And it’s time for her to pay. Not tomorrow. Not later on. Now.
Slowly, I get to my feet.
“Riley, what are you doing?” Carver says. I glance down at him. His arms are red from fingertips to elbows, pushing down on Prakesh’s chest. I should help him. Prakesh is dying in front of me, and I’m standing here, just looking at him.
You can’t save him. Just like you couldn’t save Amira, or your father, or Royo or Kev or Yao. You can’t save anyone. The only thing you can do is avenge them.
The corridor is packed with people. Three of them are locked in an argument with Koji. The others are in a loose circle around us–other workers, wearing the same threadbare overalls. I recognise some of them as the ones who followed us from the generator room, but there are others I haven’t seen before. The new arrivals have guns, rifles that they must have taken from the guards. And they’ve got supplies: containers of fuel, food, water canteens, as if they grabbed whatever they could on their way here.
I look past them, and that’s when I find the source of the strange feeling: the déjà vu I had when I first arrived on the ship.
I know these corridors. I’ve spent my entire life moving through ones just like them, using their walls and ceilings and angles and obstacles to craft the fastest, most efficient routes. That’s what I do. I’m a tracer–nothing more, nothing less.
I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. The guards might run this place, they might have weapons and they might have numbers. But in this environment? In this warren of corridors and right angles and hard surfaces? I’m in control. I am the single most dangerous person on this ship.
“Ry, you have to help me,” Carver says.
“Get him out of here,” I say. My voice is as calm as still water. “Get to the boats, get off the ship. Keep him safe.”
And before anyone can say anything, I start running.