CHAPTER 33

 

 

 

Wren clutched her arms over her chest to hide their shaking. A sour taste filled her mouth and crawled into her nostrils, dulling her senses. Even the familiar scent of Atticus—grease, his sweat, the sugar cubes he liked, all currently overlaid with the smell of soot—was faint. If enemies came at them, Wren doubted she'd know much before Atticus did. Her pounding heartbeat drowned out her hearing as well, reducing everything to the uncertain stuttering of her racing heart. She did her best to keep calm, to slow the spread of poison, but she was so damn tired. Her right leg jerked, almost dropping her to the floor. She shuffled to Piper's empty bed and sat, hating her own weakness. If anyone from the Guild saw her now, they'd shoot her in the head as a kindness.

"What are you doing?" she said, speaking around a swollen and unresponsive tongue.

Atticus hunched in front of the screen, fingers racing across the keyboard as code scrolled past. "Trying to buy us some time."

Wren didn't have the energy to respond. Besides, what was she going to say? Of course they needed time. Although she doubted that Atticus could do anything to help her. She stared at the bland wall, concentrating on keeping her breathing steady. While sitting she could spread her senses a little wider without fear of falling. Tap, tap. Atticus' fingers. Movement of water through pipes. Distant buzz of the engine. Nothing useful. She'd kill for a drink of water, it might help clear the taste of poison in her mouth.

"There," Atticus said, stepping away from the screen. "I've disabled the cameras. At least for now."

Wren raised an eyebrow.

"Tinkers don't just do mechanical machines," he said, then frowned. "You don't look so good."

Wren's gaze slid from him. If only there was a deep shadow to hide in, but the fluorescent light above their heads offered no such shelter.

"You could stay here while I—"

Wren erupted to her feet, managing not to sway through sheer force of will and three decades of training to control every impulse of her body. "I'm not an invalid."

Atticus held up his hands. "Okay. Sorry."

"Where?"

"Main control room," Atticus said. "We'll be able to do the most damage from there."

"Most security too," Wren said.

Atticus nodded.

Wren rested a hand on the gun at her waist and strode for the door. Under any other circumstances, on any other day, she would have relished the challenge of taking on the main security force of a ship like this. Not today. The poison made her reactions sluggish, her muscles weak. Hell, even the old tinker might be able to beat her in a knife fight in her current condition. Atoms! She should have been faster, should have got out of the way of the poisoned knife. Now here she was, dying at the hands of the Guild. They'd got their way in the end. At least Wren had taken down Silvan in the process. Serves them right for getting into bed with the Imperium and FutureFarm.

Wren hobbled down the passage, doing her best to move fast—it wouldn't be long before the cameras started working again—knowing that she was holding Atticus back. Her lip twisted. How long had it been since she was the weak one? Never in her life. She hated it. Would almost rather be dead.

A slight vibration in the floor made Wren freeze. Atticus stopped a second later. Wren pulled her gun from her holster. Footsteps. Not far. Not heavy enough for a super-soldier, but too heavy for a normal person.

"Enforcers," she said, gesturing to the next corner. "Three. Coming this way."

Atticus and Wren knelt to present smaller targets. Both of them carried enforcer-issued weapons that would cut through the enforcers' armor, provided they got the chance to fire.

Wren rested her weapon on her leg until the very last minute not trusting her shaking arms to hold the heavy gun up for any length of time. Only when the footsteps were right at the corner did she lift the gun, firing a moment later as the first enforcer came into view.

Her shot went wide.

Wren's stomach twisted and bile rose in her throat. She couldn't remember the last time she'd missed a shot, especially not from such close range. Heat flooded her cheeks. How could she look herself in the mirror?

Atticus' shot took the enforcer in the face. The man's head snapped back, smacking into the wall behind him. He slid to the floor.

A flicker of movement. The two enforcers who'd been just behind the first retreated around the corner, out of the line of fire.

Wren's arm gave out, falling limp at her side so that her gun smacked against the metal floor panel. Atticus glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "They'll be calling for backup."

No shit, Wren wanted to say but her jaw kept twitching, outside her control. Time was not on their side. The longer they waited, the more enforcers would arrive and the deeper Wren would sink under the effects of the poison. On the other hand, Wren wasn't sure she could drag her dying carcass to the end of the passage, let alone fight the enforcers once she got there.

One enforcer ducked around the corner and fired. He didn't take the time to aim but still his shot whizzed between Wren and Atticus, bringing with it a wave of heat that evaporated the sweat gathering on Wren's forehead.

The next shot would kill. He'd had time to gage their positions.

Atticus fired. His blasts skimmed the corner and slammed into the wall opposite. It left a charred mark. He kept firing, keeping the enforcers pinned and unable to advance.

"You've got to cover me," Atticus said, his voice low.

Wren glared down at her useless arm, limp fingers hooked around the gun. How could she? How could she lift her gun and fire when she wasn't even sure she had the strength to squeeze the trigger.

"Do it or we're both dead," Atticus said.

Wren wanted to respond with her old mantra—atoms to atoms—but words failed her. And besides, she wasn't sure it gave her comfort anymore anyway. Sure, her atoms would continue, but over the last year she'd come to appreciate their current combination. She strained, fingers managing to close around the weapon's grip.

Atticus kept firing, bright plasma blasts lighting the corridor like a firework display. Even if the enforcers hadn't called for backup, the constant bangs and pops would bring people running.

Wren heaved. She managed to lift the gun a half inch from the floor but then her arms gave out and she lost her grip. Her jaw clenched, teeth biting so hard that they threatened to crack.

"Come on," Atticus said.

Wren glared at him. "In my place, you'd have been dead an hour ago."

He stared at her. His bright blue eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, seemed to see right through her and despite the exhaustion and the pain, she found herself lifting the gun, resting it on her leg, squeezing the trigger. For some reason, she couldn't bring herself to let him down, even if it hurt like hell. Each recoil made her arm tremble but she kept firing.

Atticus edged forward. Wren tried to move with him but found her legs unresponsive, as if locked in ice, kneeling on the floor. She kept her stream of fire just to his left. At the end of the corridor he paused for a second, then darted around the corner, already firing. His shots lit up the passage and sent a stark shadow of his body across the wall behind him.

Two thuds. An enforcer's hand fell across the floor at the end of the passage.

Atticus glanced back. "We have to keep moving."

"I can't," Wren said through gritted teeth.

Atticus stomped to her side. "I guess you're not so tough." He hooked an arm under hers and heaved with more strength than she'd given him credit for. Especially considering all the burns.

His words combined with his strength gave her enough control over her legs to stand, then shuffle forward.

She resented him. Would probably have buried her knife into his gut if she weren't so damn grateful. She'd see this through. If only to prove him wrong.