also staring at my face, his eyes narrowed. As usual,he’s wearing a sleeveless T-shirt – red today – and his blond hair is perfect, the goggles on his forehead positioned just so.
“Who’d you get in a fight with?” Yao asks, squirming to her feet. “Everyone on the station? Did you win?”
“I’m fine.” Now that I’ve stopped running, the anxiety has come rushing back. Does Darnell know which crew I run with? Does he know where we live? If they get here,can we fight our way out? And Prakesh …
“Don’t look fine,” says Kev, his voice rumbling. He starts to get to his feet. It’s like a crane arm on a construction ship unfolding, with heavy joints locking into place.
“We should go find ’em,” Yao says. “Who were they, Riley? I’ll tear their legs off and play catch with their kneecaps.”
“Yao, be still,” Kevin says, without looking at her. Yao poutsand subsides, but she’s still looking at me, anger and worry on her face.
“Leave her alone, kids,” says Carver, turning back to his workbench and picking up a soldering iron. “She’s good. What’re a few bumps and bruises to someone like Riley Hale? It’s all part of the job.”
I’ve put up some pretty thick walls in my mind to keep it together today, but Carver’s words go right through them, likethey’re nothing more than cloth. Without another word, I walk over to his workbench. He’s set a bunch of parts to one side, neatly arranged on the scarred surface, and I slam my fist down right in the middle. The parts scatter, jingling as they bounce off the bench.
“The hell—” Carver says.
I get right in his face. “Do you know what I’ve been carryingall day? An eyeball. Ripped from someone’sskull. I’ve gone through ambushes and assassination attempts, and I’m a little wired right now. So do me a favour, and don’t tell me what is and isn’t part of the job.”
Carver is looking at me like I’ve gone insane. Kev are Yao are staring, open-mouthed.
“Well,” says a voice. “I’m so glad things didn’t fall apart while I was gone.”
Amira Al-Hassan is standing by the door, her arms folded, hereyes locked on mine.
13
Riley
If she hadn’t spoken, none of us would have noticed Amira come in. She’s deathly quiet, always has been, and runs as if her feet aren’t touching the ground. The jumps that I stumble and crash on, she lands with gentle ease, soft and hushed as a kiss.
She has to bend her head slightly to come through the door. Amira’s older than me by a good ten years, and is dressed simply, in a greytank top and cargo pants. Around her neck is a faded red scarf, the frayed ends falling down her back. Her pack hangs loosely from one hand.
She walks over to Carver’s bench, taking in my bruises. “This is a story I have to hear,” she says, before reaching inside her pack and pulling out a box of protein bars. “I got these from the job. Let’s have some breakfast.”
“Yeah,” says a dazed Carver,getting to his feet. “Good idea.”
I sit down on the pile of mattresses in the corner. It was a little hard to stay standing – my body seems to give up all at once, the strength flowing out of my legs. My dad’s flight jacket bunches up around me, the sleeves pushing down over my hands.
The Nest doesn’t look like much. It’s just two narrow interconnected rooms, low ceilinged, with hissing pipesscaling the walls. The room that houses Carver’s workbench is where we tend to hang out – the other one has an air shower and chemical toilet, which he’s hooked into the main system. People who come here say the place smells. It probably does, what with five Devil Dancers living right on top of each other – the Nest being the size it is, it’s not really up to holding a lot of people. But I don’tthink I’ve noticed a smell for years. It’s home.
My gaze strays to the colours on the wall by my head. Abstract shapes in shades of red and green and black and gold. Yao’s mural.
“Who’d you get in a fight with?” Yao asks, squirming to her feet. “Everyone on the station? Did you win?”
“I’m fine.” Now that I’ve stopped running, the anxiety has come rushing back. Does Darnell know which crew I run with? Does he know where we live? If they get here,can we fight our way out? And Prakesh …
“Don’t look fine,” says Kev, his voice rumbling. He starts to get to his feet. It’s like a crane arm on a construction ship unfolding, with heavy joints locking into place.
“We should go find ’em,” Yao says. “Who were they, Riley? I’ll tear their legs off and play catch with their kneecaps.”
“Yao, be still,” Kevin says, without looking at her. Yao poutsand subsides, but she’s still looking at me, anger and worry on her face.
“Leave her alone, kids,” says Carver, turning back to his workbench and picking up a soldering iron. “She’s good. What’re a few bumps and bruises to someone like Riley Hale? It’s all part of the job.”
I’ve put up some pretty thick walls in my mind to keep it together today, but Carver’s words go right through them, likethey’re nothing more than cloth. Without another word, I walk over to his workbench. He’s set a bunch of parts to one side, neatly arranged on the scarred surface, and I slam my fist down right in the middle. The parts scatter, jingling as they bounce off the bench.
“The hell—” Carver says.
I get right in his face. “Do you know what I’ve been carryingall day? An eyeball. Ripped from someone’sskull. I’ve gone through ambushes and assassination attempts, and I’m a little wired right now. So do me a favour, and don’t tell me what is and isn’t part of the job.”
Carver is looking at me like I’ve gone insane. Kev are Yao are staring, open-mouthed.
“Well,” says a voice. “I’m so glad things didn’t fall apart while I was gone.”
Amira Al-Hassan is standing by the door, her arms folded, hereyes locked on mine.
13
Riley
If she hadn’t spoken, none of us would have noticed Amira come in. She’s deathly quiet, always has been, and runs as if her feet aren’t touching the ground. The jumps that I stumble and crash on, she lands with gentle ease, soft and hushed as a kiss.
She has to bend her head slightly to come through the door. Amira’s older than me by a good ten years, and is dressed simply, in a greytank top and cargo pants. Around her neck is a faded red scarf, the frayed ends falling down her back. Her pack hangs loosely from one hand.
She walks over to Carver’s bench, taking in my bruises. “This is a story I have to hear,” she says, before reaching inside her pack and pulling out a box of protein bars. “I got these from the job. Let’s have some breakfast.”
“Yeah,” says a dazed Carver,getting to his feet. “Good idea.”
I sit down on the pile of mattresses in the corner. It was a little hard to stay standing – my body seems to give up all at once, the strength flowing out of my legs. My dad’s flight jacket bunches up around me, the sleeves pushing down over my hands.
The Nest doesn’t look like much. It’s just two narrow interconnected rooms, low ceilinged, with hissing pipesscaling the walls. The room that houses Carver’s workbench is where we tend to hang out – the other one has an air shower and chemical toilet, which he’s hooked into the main system. People who come here say the place smells. It probably does, what with five Devil Dancers living right on top of each other – the Nest being the size it is, it’s not really up to holding a lot of people. But I don’tthink I’ve noticed a smell for years. It’s home.
My gaze strays to the colours on the wall by my head. Abstract shapes in shades of red and green and black and gold. Yao’s mural.
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