tried this. As I jump, I reach up and behind me, grasping the lip of the opening. I relax into the movement, letting my body rock backwards,and then using the forward momentum of the swing to haul myself up through the hatch.
I roll onto my side as I do so. My body screams at me to stay there, but I ignore it, forcing myself to my feet.
The hatch slips back into place with a tinyhiss. The entranceway is almost completely dark, the only light coming from a tiny digital keypad bolted onto the wall behind me. It’s the perfect security system: getting up into the storage unit requires either something to stand on, or the moves of a tracer, and even then you’ve got to know the access code to the inner door. Whoever designed this part of Outer Earth probably didn’t plan on itbeing used this way, but it’s worked out pretty well for us.
I have to fiddle with the 9 for a bit before the number appears on the display: the unit’s old, salvaged from a discarded piece of machinery, and although Carver works hard to maintain it, it’s slowly wearing down.
The keypad soon gives two welcoming beeps. I push on the door, but instead of swinging open, it remains locked shut. Frowning,I look at the keypad. Right before the display resets itself, I catch sight of the code I entered. It was correct.
I do
not
have time for this.
I punch it in again, but still the metal door refuses to budge. I’m about to enter the code a third time when I realise exactly what the problem is.
“Carver, open this door!” I shout, not caring if there’s anybody in the passage below to hear me. Ihammer on the metal, and the sound sets my ears ringing.
There’s movement from the other side, and then a voice: “That kind of tone won’t get you anywhere. Say please.”
The attempt to control myself lasts perhaps two seconds. “I swear, Carver, if you don’t open this door right now, I will tear it off the wall and make you eat it.”
I hear muted laughter, and then the click of the lock beingreleased. The door opens, and as I step through into the Nest I reach for the first thing I can see – in this case, an old battery lying on a nearby chair – and hurl it across the room at Aaron Carver. As much as I wish it wasn’t the case, his reflexes are as good as ever. The battery smashes harmlessly into the wall with a clang before bouncing out of sight.
There’s a small box in his hand,and I can see the thin wires snaking across the floor to the entrance. He’s perched at his workbench, a mess of something black and spiky on the table in front of him. We have him to thank for our super-light backpacks. They’re better than the canvas packs we used to use – with those, the cargo would be shaken to pieces inside of ten minutes.
None of which stops him being incredibly annoying.
There’s a gasp on my right. Then a voice, high and musical: “Who beat up your
face
?”
I look round to find the Twins: Yao Shen and Kevin O’Connell. Yao is on the right, sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring goggle-eyed at my bruises. She’s a wispy, elfin thing, with curious eyes and a tiny bud-shaped mouth. When I first saw her, I thought she was way too young and fragile to be a tracer, butshe’s got some serious moves: the bigger the jump, the harder she throws herself at it.
Kev is seated next to her. While Yao is tiny, Kev is enormous: a bruiser with upper arms that look like thick steel cables. There’s a book next to his knee
– the
book, rather, a copy of
Treasure Island
that we’ve each read so many times the jacket has disintegrated and most of the pages are torn.
The Twinstake jobs together, run together, fight together. From what Amira has told me, they aren’t lovers, but sometimes I find it hard to believe. I once referred to them as the Twins for a joke, and the name stuck.
I rub my eye socket absently. “Got in a fight,” I say, in answer to Yao’s question. “Where’s Amira?”
“Out on a job,” says Carver. He’s
I roll onto my side as I do so. My body screams at me to stay there, but I ignore it, forcing myself to my feet.
The hatch slips back into place with a tinyhiss. The entranceway is almost completely dark, the only light coming from a tiny digital keypad bolted onto the wall behind me. It’s the perfect security system: getting up into the storage unit requires either something to stand on, or the moves of a tracer, and even then you’ve got to know the access code to the inner door. Whoever designed this part of Outer Earth probably didn’t plan on itbeing used this way, but it’s worked out pretty well for us.
I have to fiddle with the 9 for a bit before the number appears on the display: the unit’s old, salvaged from a discarded piece of machinery, and although Carver works hard to maintain it, it’s slowly wearing down.
The keypad soon gives two welcoming beeps. I push on the door, but instead of swinging open, it remains locked shut. Frowning,I look at the keypad. Right before the display resets itself, I catch sight of the code I entered. It was correct.
I do
not
have time for this.
I punch it in again, but still the metal door refuses to budge. I’m about to enter the code a third time when I realise exactly what the problem is.
“Carver, open this door!” I shout, not caring if there’s anybody in the passage below to hear me. Ihammer on the metal, and the sound sets my ears ringing.
There’s movement from the other side, and then a voice: “That kind of tone won’t get you anywhere. Say please.”
The attempt to control myself lasts perhaps two seconds. “I swear, Carver, if you don’t open this door right now, I will tear it off the wall and make you eat it.”
I hear muted laughter, and then the click of the lock beingreleased. The door opens, and as I step through into the Nest I reach for the first thing I can see – in this case, an old battery lying on a nearby chair – and hurl it across the room at Aaron Carver. As much as I wish it wasn’t the case, his reflexes are as good as ever. The battery smashes harmlessly into the wall with a clang before bouncing out of sight.
There’s a small box in his hand,and I can see the thin wires snaking across the floor to the entrance. He’s perched at his workbench, a mess of something black and spiky on the table in front of him. We have him to thank for our super-light backpacks. They’re better than the canvas packs we used to use – with those, the cargo would be shaken to pieces inside of ten minutes.
None of which stops him being incredibly annoying.
There’s a gasp on my right. Then a voice, high and musical: “Who beat up your
face
?”
I look round to find the Twins: Yao Shen and Kevin O’Connell. Yao is on the right, sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring goggle-eyed at my bruises. She’s a wispy, elfin thing, with curious eyes and a tiny bud-shaped mouth. When I first saw her, I thought she was way too young and fragile to be a tracer, butshe’s got some serious moves: the bigger the jump, the harder she throws herself at it.
Kev is seated next to her. While Yao is tiny, Kev is enormous: a bruiser with upper arms that look like thick steel cables. There’s a book next to his knee
– the
book, rather, a copy of
Treasure Island
that we’ve each read so many times the jacket has disintegrated and most of the pages are torn.
The Twinstake jobs together, run together, fight together. From what Amira has told me, they aren’t lovers, but sometimes I find it hard to believe. I once referred to them as the Twins for a joke, and the name stuck.
I rub my eye socket absently. “Got in a fight,” I say, in answer to Yao’s question. “Where’s Amira?”
“Out on a job,” says Carver. He’s
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