Sea of Stars (Kricket #2) Page 10

  A Rafe soldier near me draws his weapon, but he doesn’t point it in my direction. Instead, he asks, “Where are they?”

  I take a gasping breath, choking back my urge to cry at his apparent acceptance of what I’m saying. “They’re right there!” I stab my finger in Kyon’s direction, repeating, “They’re right there.”

  He lifts his harbinger and fires at the spot I indicate. Nothing happens.

  “Do it again! I swear they’re there!” I insist.

  He fires again, and then pauses. It’s silent for several seconds. Watching the spot in the center of the lobby, I search for any movement. Then, I jump in horror as the ear-piercing, sickening sound of ammunition rounds are pumped into the crowd of Brigadets and civilians standing in the commissary. The scent of weapon fire and blood vapor fills the room along with the screaming voices of Brigadets returning fire on thin air. Suddenly, one of the hulking Alameeda soldiers from Kyon’s hunting party falls out of the invisible circle, writhing in pain from a wound to his abdomen. He clutches his middle, trying to stave off the flow of blood wetting the ground. He reaches out in the direction of the empty space in front of him, motioning for them to pull him back into their cloak of invisibility.

  Someone near me screams, “Alameeda!”

  Kyon comes crashing out of the hidden circle, black smoke swirling in a disturbed burst around him. He murders three soldiers with precision shots before they even know he’s there, but he never stops moving in my direction. Behind him, some of his men come into view, killing Brigadets as they trail him, protecting his flank. Kyon bashes heavy tables out of his path. I’m frozen in fear for a few moments, and then I turn, desperately searching for a way to escape. I plow forward, squirming between the soldiers who are now wholly engaged in the firefight with their enemies. I glance over my shoulder. Kyon is only steps behind me, killing everyone in his path. Because I’m watching him, I miss the hovering service-bot bussing a table of dirty dishes in front of me. Plates shatter onto the floor when I crash into it. The robot holds its ground by forcing me sideways. I smash into the dirty-dish receptacle embedded in the wall, almost falling into its conveyor chute.

  With Kyon bearing down on me, he points an accusing finger as he promises, “You will learn to obey me!”

  I turn away from him, frantically squeezing myself headfirst into the small dish chute in the wall. It’s a conveyor system used to transport dirty dishes to a place called the dishery. My shoulders barely fit within the chrome-lined space; it’s so tight that I have to round my back so the sensors along the walls and ceiling won’t abrade me. As I enter, thousands of tiny little round air holes beneath me propel me forward into the darkness of the sloping tunnel. It feels as if I’m floating on a magic carpet of air as I glide along, my hair lifting and pushing and slapping me in the face.

  From behind me, Kyon’s stern voice calls out my name in frustration. Reaching his long arm in, he grasps the toe of my boot, but I kick back as hard as I can and it slips from his fingers, allowing me to slide away. “Kricket!” Kyon howls my name again, eliciting terror in my frantic heart.

  Though I continue moving away from him, I’m too shaken to feel any relief. It takes me a second to realize that choking sobs are racking my body while I move at a steady pace for a bit in the near absence of light. Twisting and turning, I’m gently rolled along the dish corridor, a passenger in the aftermath of a monstrous tea party. Up ahead, light flickers and before long I’m unceremoniously shifted onto an adjoining air-powered conveyor where I’m whisked off at a much faster pace. This corridor leads to an open factorylike area. With a gasping sigh, I’m able to sit up and move my arms as the conveyor of air flows into another enormous one. A menagerie of stained dining settings and sticky utensils surround me that range from chintz to futuristic elegance. I spy the matte-black harbinger that I’d stolen from Kyon among the rabble of dinnerware. Reaching for it, I take the heavy weapon in my hand and stuff it under my shirt against the waistband of my pants. Looking over the side of the conveyor, a Penrose-stairs-like maze of conveyor lines come and go in a seemingly infinite paradox of wine-resin stemware and kitsch plates. I shiver at the size of this facility and desperately search around for a way out.

  Ahead of me, robotic arms line both sides of my conveyor. Nimble metal claws select drinking glasses, tumblers, mugs, and flutes from the chaos of floating china, sorting them into racks that get transferred to a different conveyor line. Unable to find a way off this river of air sweeping me forward, I throw my arms around my head and duck as I come abreast of the surgically extracting arms. A scanner passes over me, but nothing else happens. The robots continue to select only the drinking glasses from the mess and leave me be.

  I breathe a sigh of relief, but it’s short-lived, because rows of bristly rollers line the conveyor ahead of me. Thrusting back and forth and side to side, the bristles roll over the plates and cutlery, scraping away excess food. The food is pushed off to troughs on the sides of the conveyors and shuttled away onto different conveyors.

  As I near the brushes, I scrunch up my face, covering my head with my arms once more. The first brush pushes me flat into a lieback position. The bristles bounce over me, scrubbing my skin with delicate, crumb-encrusted fingers. When I pass by them all, I sit up again on the cloud of air, exhaling a deep breath.

  I’m propelled into the next section with significantly more force than the previous ones. Pushing forward, I travel under an arching tunnel of metal jets that shower me. Hot water drips from my chin, as I’m thoroughly soaked. A sharp hiss draws my attention to my right side. Steam rolls from a glass tunnel on an adjacent air-conveyor line. A roiling cloud of steam blasts from it, the temperature of which is enough to sizzle butter. Endless streams of crated glasses trundle into the car-wash-like tunnel, which soaps, lathers, rinses, and sanitizes them. The current temperature reading on the side of the mechanism is equal to a whopping 180 degrees. I shudder, grateful that I didn’t fall onto the skin-melting conveyor with the glassware. But the conveyor I’m on rounds a turn, and I’m met with the same type of hellfire dishwasher ahead of me.

  Wild-eyed, I flail my arms, trying to halt my progression forward. I knock dishes over the sides of the conveyor, watching them commit to gravity and fall several stories before they catch a different conveyor and are whisked away in another direction. A sharp hiss of scalding steam emits from the passage ahead of me, turning the air white into a billowing cloud of heat. Desperately, I rock back and forth on the cushion of air beneath me in an attempt to gain enough momentum to pitch myself over the side.

  Almost to the tunnel, I whimper as the first flood of steam touches me, turning my skin rosy. I lift my arms to shield my face from the burn. Thump, a muffled noise rumbles and rolls out, becoming louder and louder until the whole dishery ripples in a wave of shaking chaos. The conveyor tilts to the side, catapulting me off it before I reach the dish inferno. I hurtle through the air, arching upward in a flying heap before being caught in another slipstream. The forced air jerks me sideways before dumping me off the end of the belt of air. I fall with the other scraps of meat into a gigantic composting silo.

  The walls of the compost silo are steely and high. I take a few deep breaths, stunned that I’m still alive. As I lie atop the mound of squishy leftovers, I cringe in horror. More uneaten food pours out of a giant, overturned bucket swinging from a hook above me. I roll to the side, narrowly avoiding being buried. Floundering amid the carnage of discarded cuisine, I crawl to the side of the compost vat. I try to gain some footing, but I keep sinking into the sludge beneath me.

  When I spy metal ladder rungs on the opposite side of the vat, I flail toward them. The bottom of the vat makes a choking gasp; it rattles and come to life with a groan. The food beneath me moves in a circular motion, swirling as if it’s being flushed down a drain. In merry-go-round fashion, I’m dragged around the rim of the garbage silo. Coming to the ladder, I palm a rung, b
ut it slips out of my hand as my feet lodge on the muck. I growl in frustration, gritting my teeth. I’m swept away from the ladder. A hole forms in the center of the vat; compost feeds into sharp, churning blades, shredding everything into crumbs with the viciousness of a wood chipper.

  I blanch, scrambling with renewed vigor to dislodge my feet from the muck miring them. Pulling on my calf, I can’t get it unstuck and I miss the ladder rung as it passes. Hurriedly, I unfasten the straps on my boots. An avalanche of rubbish careens into the middle of the centrifuge, rolling down to get sucked into the belly of the shredder.

  My lip curls in determination. I reach down, finding a jam-smeared piece of bread; I smash it between my hands, rubbing my palms with the sticky residue. I crouch in preparation as I go around again. When I near the ladder rung once more, I grasp the metal in my hand, getting a good grip. Pulling myself up, I loop my arm through the rung, catching the bar in the bend of my elbow. I lock my wrist with my hand and draw it to my chest. Stretching to full extension, I’m torn out of my boots while I cleave to the rung. I close my eyes for a moment, panting hard and holding back tears. When I open my eyes, I look down and see my boots tumble into the jaws of the composter.

  As I clamber up the ladder, I miss my footing several times in my haste and nearly fall back in. I pull myself over the lip of the trough and I lie gasping on a grated catwalk. Thump, thump, thump. Bombs! I’m nearly shaken off the walkway, but I manage to hang on by wrapping my arm around the railing. The lights flicker in bolts of yellow. Dishes crash down in pelting shards from the interrupted airflow on the conveyors; luckily, I’m shielded from most of it by the catwalk above this one.

  Sirens shriek in warning. When the trembling abates, I rise, my knees shaking. I clutch the railing and take my first limping steps. Pipes burst above my head, raining warm water on me, bleeding the splashes of muck from my hair and clothes. I stumble along the causeway, where a pearly light catches my attention and illuminates a hatchlike door.

  I lift the latch of the door, ease it open, and find myself in an empty room. The loud siren continues in here, echoing off the tiled walls while a light on the ceiling strobes the room in ominous flashes.

  I scream when metal showerheads drop from the ceiling and a clear glass tube rises from the ground, trapping me just over the threshold. I gasp, staring up at the spouts, and my hands press and push against the solid walls surrounding me. A fem-bot voice activates, “Contamination detected. Please remain still for decontamination.”

  The showerheads rain down foamy soap and warm water on my head while an arch of mini-jets hits me from all sides. I cringe, scrunching my eyes closed. Loose strands of food and slime flow away into the drains at my feet. After a couple of minutes, the showerheads turn off and retract. The clear tube disappears back into the floor, freeing me.

  Holding my breath, I wait to be apprehended again, but it’s clear after several moments that I’m entirely alone here. The place is deserted, and through an observation window, I note that the control room is empty. I move forward tentatively to a steel bench in front of the clear-fronted, lighted lockers lining the walls. I try the latch on a few, but they’re all locked. To my left, there’s a shower room—a lavare. I raise my shaky hand to my wet hair; a shower is a moot point now. Instead, I hunt around for something to wear that will hide my hair.

  In a bin near the door, I find discarded cherry-red, industrial overcoats. They must use them to wear over their clothing when they go out to inspect the dishery. I rummage through the bin, drawing one out. It’s enormous. I toss it back in and hunt for another that’s a little smaller. When I locate one, I try it on. It reaches all the way to my ankles. I pull up the attached splash-guard hood, shrouding my hair. I pull the harbinger from the waistband of my pants, and tuck it into the outer pocket of the trenchlike coat. I tiptoe over to a door on the adjacent wall, leaving a trail of wet toe prints on the floor behind me.

  The door slides up automatically as I approach. I hesitate as people run by, too preoccupied to even glance my way. I watch them for a few minutes, but it’s clear that they’re abandoning their posts at the dishery as fast as possible. Cautiously, I enter the sterile, white corridor. Merging into the chaos around me, I leave the dishery behind.

  CHAPTER 6

  HANG ME UP TO DRY

  A fem-bot voice, piping through the audio system, calmly states, “All active-duty personnel are ordered to report to assigned combat stations. Code Amber. Enemy infiltration is detected. All noncombat personnel are ordered to seek shelter in your designated areas—follow protocol Alpha Indie.” The voice pauses for only a few moments before it restates its message. “All active-duty personnel . . .”

  I run down the bright white corridor with no thought of direction, guided purely by fear and adrenaline. When I come to the end of it, I search the wall and ceiling for some kind of marker that will help me find the detention area. Nothing! There’s nothing!

  The tap of booted feet hurrying to their assigned positions in the battle echo the flight of my rapidly beating heart. In the next corridor, everyone I come across is outfitted in combat gear. The light that runs down the center of the wide passage is flashing from white to amber here. There are several hallways, but I continue straight ahead.

  When I turn onto a new passage, a holographic male figure materializes in my path. I stumble to a halt at his country-club smile, recognizing his handsome visage as being one of a Rafian actor with a role on Violet Shadows, a soap opera program that women seem to follow religiously here.

  “Welcome to the Beezway, the express superhighway to get you to where you need to be by the most efficient means possible. Shall I call for your transport?” he asks me.

  My mouth opens, and then shuts as I think of a response to that question. Finally I murmur tentatively, “Yes?”

  The actor’s image gives me a toothy grin. “Excellent! Please scan your wrist communicator into the kiosk to call your vehicle to our current location.” His holographic hand gestures to the lighted, cylindrical docking station near a wall of glass ahead of us. I begin to realize that he’s a glorified valet-slash-doorman.

  I hold up my bare wrist to him. “I don’t have my wrist communicator available—I misplaced it.”

  With a genuine look of concern on his lighted face, my attractive companion replies, “I’m sorry to hear that. Shall I call for a general mode of transportation for you?”

  “Uhh . . . sure,” I say with my bottom lip rolling out.

  “Please state your destination.”

  I falter for a moment. Where do I want to go? Where would Trey go? I wonder. He’s looking for me—I know it. When the Alameeda attack starts, though, he’ll go to the detention center to try to free our friends. “I want to go to the detention center . . . where prisoners are held?” I ask him, keeping my face averted beneath my red hood as a group of soldiers run past us.

  “Please wait one moment while I input your destination,” he says apologetically.

  As I wait, I walk a few steps away to the wall of glass that separates us from outside of the ship. Beneath the window, a concrete tunnel shelters a lavender channel of light. The channel is a superhighway, ferrying all sorts of hover vehicles along its wide berth in two directions. The highway acts as a link between buildings and around the perimeter of the ship.

  I turn away from the window, observing the lobby of this hovercar station. I realize this part of the ship is quickly becoming a ghost town. Several other holographic images of soap opera actors are calling forth hover vehicles for Skye personnel, evacuating them from this area.

  I startle as I glance to my side and find the hologram has joined me at the window. “I’m sorry,” the actor-hologram says, “all general transportation has been suspended due to Code Amber. Would you like me to contact a security detail to assist you?”

  “No!” I state, holding up both my hands. “That won’t be nec
essary. I will locate another means of transport.” Dropping my hands, I back away from his smiling visage.

  “Okay.” He gives me a sultry look. “Don’t forget to check in with Violet Shadows, airing tonight at nineteen parts.”

  “Will do,” I say, before turning and moving toward the outside doors.

  I keep my face down while the last few technicians from the dishery move to their hover vehicles and merge onto the highway. I wave my hand in front of a panel and open the doors to the Beezway. I walk through and stand at the railing. Several fast-moving hovercars zip past, creating a slipstream that nearly blows the hood of my overcoat back from my head.

  There’s nothing left for me to do but to climb over the railing and onto the glowing lavender roadway. I press to the side abruptly as a bullet-shaped hover vehicle fires down the tunneling passage; it’s carrying troops dressed in Cavar uniforms. After taking a deep breath, I turn and follow in the direction they’re going. More shiny silver hovercars with Cavars inside go by. The hopelessness of locating Trey crushes me, squeezing my heart.

  In desperation, I sprint down the center of the express track. A hover vehicle rounds the bend in front of me; this one is black and built for speed. I stop and put my hands up, waving at it frantically. The driver cuts the air jets; the vehicle loses buoyancy, hitting the ground. As the car bounces, it sends out sparks, screeching as it grinds across the lane. Stopping right in front of me, the driver’s eyes widen in surprise, and then narrow in anger. The door of the vehicle opens, sliding in an arc over the ceiling.

  He flicks his hands at me. “Are you demented?” he asks as he approaches me. “I almost flattened you!” He’s at least a foot and a half taller than me and he’s all brawn with short, military-style hair. His Cavar uniform is that of an officer. The tribal tattoos on his neck are a comforting sight. “Who are you? What are you doing in the middle of the Beezway?”