Everything comes in flashes.
Prakesh is awake, being dragged down one of the Ramona’s corridors. Something is wrong with his chest. It’s like his ribs is made of hot coals. Every time he tries to breathe, they flare up, searing him with impossible pain. He can hear someone screaming. By the time he realises it’s him, he’s falling back into darkness.
Another flash. He’s outside, looking at the sky. No: not quite outside. The hull of the Ramona curves above him, a black mass blotting out the clouds. He’s in one of the ovular entrances in the ship’s side, lying on his back.
“How many boats down there?” It’s Carver’s voice. He’s alive.
“Three. Should be enough for us and the supplies both,” says someone else.
He saw Riley. He’s sure of it. Where is she? Is she here? He tries to speak, but he can’t get enough air into his lungs. He was shot. Why was he shot? He was on his way to find the other workers, to stop them from…
He doesn’t know. He almost has it, but holding onto the memory is almost impossible.
Carver appears, leaning into view above Prakesh, arguing with one of the workers. His arms are soaked in blood, streaked up to the elbows. Dimly, Prakesh realises that it’s his blood.
“You did what?” Carver is staring at the man, his eyes wide.
“There’s enough time,” the worker says. Sweat is pouring down his face, and a cut on his cheek spills blood down his jawline. “We put down a long trail of fuel. It’ll take a while to really catch.”
“No way,” Carver says, jabbing a finger at the ceiling. “Riley’s still up there. I’m not leaving without her.”
“Fine,” the man says. “Then stay. But we can’t come back for you.”
Carver turns away, on the verge of leaving. Prakesh struggles to speak, desperate to remember. But it’s too much effort, and he feels his eyes starting to close again.
HAARP.
Prakesh’s eyes fly open. He has to find a way to tell them. If they let that fuel catch, the detonation will sink the ship. There’s got to be a way to stop it.
His throat is dry as old bone. He tries again, and this time sound escapes. It’s a moan, low and weak, but it’s enough. Carver looks down at him, just for a second.
Please, Prakesh thinks. And somehow, he finds the strength to form words.
“HAARP,” he says. It’s a rough bark, barely a word.
“You’re going to be OK,” Carver says, squeezing his shoulder. He’s getting ready to leave.
“HAARP,” Prakesh says again.
This time, his voice is stronger. Carver glances at him again, and there must be something on Prakesh’s face, because he drops to one knee next to him, concern on his face. “What’s that?”
“There’s a HAARP,” Prakesh says. He tries to keep going, but his voice gives out, and he coughs. Pain envelopes him, and he blinks away hot tears.
“A what?”
Prakesh doesn’t have much left. He can already feel himself slipping back into unconsciousness. He gives it one last try. “There’s a HAARP unit,” he says. “On this ship. Climate control. Weather. You can’t let it burn.”
It’ll have to be enough. There’s nothing left.
“What the hell is—” Carver says, and stops. His eyes go huge.
It was all Prakesh could do to provide the information he did, but he can see that Carver has put it all together. He understands. They’re both scientists. He grows things, and Carver builds things, but they still come from the same place.
The worker appears in Prakesh’s field of vision. “What’s he saying?”
“You stupid, stupid son of a bitch.” Carver rockets to his feet, so suddenly that the man has to jump back. “This ship–it’s got bulkhead doors, right? Where’s the closest door to the fuel stash?”
“Door 6 on C deck, I think, but—”
“How do I close them? Tell me.”
Good, Prakesh thinks. That’s good.
And he sinks into oblivion.