Kip went across one foot at a time, mitigating the imbalance.

  Both boards shifted an een or two, but not enough to be problematic. Yet.

  Deep breath. You got this, String.

  Scar grabbed his arm, steadying them as the Glide dipped and resettled. Kip’s abandoned board did not react as violently as he feared then realized why: Emilie had grabbed hold of it.

  “Over there,” Scar hissed, pointing to where he’d need Kip’s help. The Glide wobbled beneath them as Kip and Scar took positions on opposite sides of the valve. No amount of rehearsal duplicated the synchronized routine they’d need to make this work.

  Scar pulled down on the pipe-gnasher, which required ten full clockwise rotations, but the valve refused to budge.

  “Frozen,” he gasped. “Probably hasn’t been opened in years. Or ever. Dresh.”

  “We do it together,” Kip said, unaware the notion of speaking in Blend-cant had vanished up here. “I’m coming.”

  Pushed in against each other, Kip and Scar placed gloved hands on the tool.

  “Together,” Scar said.

  They pulled, the valve groaning in protest. With this kind of force applied, Kip knew what would happen if either lost control. He also knew the revolution would end as soon as it began if they didn’t unfreeze the valve.

  He gave it everything, and they grunted together …

  Until the pipe-gnasher rotated down the first eens.

  “It’s working,” Kip whispered. “It’s working.”

  “I got it,” Scar said. “Move back.”

  Kip repositioned and wrung out his hands. Scar advanced the tool a hundred eighty degrees, leaving it in position for Kip to continue the motion, pushing upward until the handle aimed north, at which point Scar grabbed hold.

  One full turn, then another.

  The hitch valve cooperated more with each rotation, decades of corrosion giving way. Sweat dripped into Kip’s eyes, his arms burning with effort.

  At the bottom of the sixth rotation, the Glide lurched, pitching to one side. Kip’s stomach dropped as his fingers slipped off the pipe-gnasher.

  “Got you!” Em shouted, ramming her Glide under theirs, creating a precarious platform.

  Em to the rescue. He knew she’d be there when he needed her most. He repositioned and grabbed the tool again.

  “Four more,” he gasped, twisting with renewed desperation. Scar shouted the same; their scripted movement took them to the end.

  Four. Three. Two.

  Kip’s muscles screamed as he fought to finish the tenth rotation.

  The valve spun free, and the hatch released with a hiss of pressurized air.

  “Step back,” Scar said, and Kip returned to his board.

  Scar swung the hatch wide and said what Kip already thought.

  “Wrench never thought it would be that hard.”

  Scar returned the tool to his jacket and pointed to Kip.

  “You’re up, String. We lost time.”

  His wrist pad vibrated. Zero’s voice crackled through, broken but triumphant.

  “Nodes on 128 through 132 ... showing looped footage. EQ is ... blind.”

  Another voice cut through with Ghost’s breathless excitement:

  “Decibel amps deployed ... quad four to seven. Enforcers scrambling like ... null-jacks at a power outage.”

  TimBob followed next.

  “How are my ratworms? Spark the truth.”

  Scar answered on his pad.

  “Hatch is open. About to start the crawl.”

  Kip imagined TimBob behaving like a general on the battlefield, overseeing his troops on many fronts. They had placed modified amplifiers throughout corridors adjacent to EQ and scattered levels below, each device programmed to mimic different emergencies: A water burst here, a security breach there.

  “Twenty slags ... chasing shadows,” Wrench added, devilish laughter in his tone. “Zero’s hack redirected ... all alarms to ... wrong zones.”

  Scar asked the most important question.

  “How long we clear?”

  “Eight minups before system reset,” Zero replied. “Best I can do.”

  “Make it count, my little ratworms,” TimBob added.

  Eight minups. We were supposed to have fifteen. Can we do this?

  Thinking about it wasted time.

  Kip and Scar exchanged positions.

  “Flow true,” Kip said, shimmying into the narrow shaft.

  “Flow true,” they echoed.

  The square shaft was twice as wide as Kip at the shoulders. His breath echoed in the confined space, mixing with the rhythmic scrape of his elbows against the tithium casing as he scrambled forward. Sweat trickled down his back despite the cooling hood. On the bright side: The surface was smooth. He thought the lack of resistance might allow them to regain some time, especially on the back end.

  Left elbow, right elbow, pull forward.

  As he traversed the ten units to the T-junction at the armory, Kip ran through his next steps. Outside, Scar was helping Em unstrap and activate the fourth Glide.

  Kip advanced in silence, praying no one heard him approach. When he reached the T-junction, Kip peered through the vent.

  Oh, fring me!

  The mesh vent below offered a perfect view into the armory, a room perhaps half the size he’d imagined from TimBob’s descriptions. Sleek metal shelves lined the walls, holding neat rows of enforcement equipment. Shock batons gleamed under harsh lighting, their power cells blue. Flashguns sat cradled, ready for action.

  He wanted to tell the others what he saw. But no, he had to work fast. Already, Zero announced a seven-minup warning.

  Kip rolled on his side and braced himself then searched for the pocket containing his personal masterpiece. Bare hands would have been easier right now, but he dared not risk it. Not even a Blend’s skin was impervious to the effect of ultra-hot tithium.

  He unlatched a pocket’s seal and grabbed his next set of tools.

  The two palm-sized jammers represented weeks of scavenging and modifications. They proved invaluable at the Northern Drop heist, but Zero enhanced their signal modulators, allowing them to mimic authorized access codes while disrupting live security nodes. This level of sabotage could get them executed as terrorists.

  They had joked about that possibility during final prep.

  Kip activated the jammers, their lights blinking from red to amber while searching for security frequencies. The handheld reader from his utility belt displayed a cascade of code as the devices probed for vulnerabilities in the armory’s protection systems.

  The reader flashed green.

  “We’re in,” Kip breathed, relief washing through him. “Security nodes compromised.”

  “Here I come,” Scar said, and Kip heard new movement following him through the shaft.

  “Em, we’re about to go in,” Kip whispered into his wrist pad. “Stand by with the Glides.”

  Her acknowledgment came as a soft click over the channel. Back at the hatch, she waited with their escape vehicles in a new configuration, keeping them in hover mode for a quick departure.

  She’d also climb into the shaft to finish the chain as they shuffled the cargo toward her. But that would be later. For now, Kip needed to get them inside the empty room without alerting anyone.

  “Six minups,” Scar said.

  Dresh!

  Kip used his favorite multi-tool, a source of great joy he brought straight from home and worked at the edges of the vent cover. The metal groaned as it gave way. He pushed it aside to the perpendicular shaft and studied the jump. Less than two units. About Kip’s height.

  For the sake of time, he grabbed the sides of the vent hole and propelled himself forward. This wasn’t much of a fall; Kip knew how to brace himself.

  He fell through the opening and rolled his body. He stepped out of the way to allow Scar to follow.

  “Five minups,” Scar said when upright.

  They took quick stock of the treasure without uttering a word. Scar pointed to the utility cases; they took two each and went for the flashguns first. They worked in synchronization; a dance rehearsed in their whispers and dreams.

  Was this how it felt to be a real soldier? In the wars of pre-Collapse eras, did soldiers steal from the enemy to strengthen their own forces?

  He never held a flashgun until now. The weapon sat tall in his hand, lightweight with a stubby barrel but wide muzzle. He didn’t know how it operated, or even if these guns held the promised ten charges of plasma bullets, but they didn’t have time to contemplate.

  “Four minups.”

  The armory’s heat sensors no doubt registered the surge in temperature since the hatch opened. They were certain to trigger an alert soon, jammers or no jammers. Kip moved faster, grabbing flashguns from their cradles.

  “One of these is enough,” Scar murmured, referring to the collection of shock batons and neural disruptors they had accumulated. He raised the case over his head and tossed it into the shaft.

  “Em, we need you.”

  “Already there, Scar. I’ve got it.”

  They continued filling cargo until five cases contained flashguns.

  “We’re good,” Scar said.

  Kip pointed to a collection of eight more guns.

  “TimBob said to clear it out.”

  “We don’t have time, String. We …”

  Kip filled interior pockets with four guns. Scar managed the rest.

  “Three minups,” Zero said from outside somewhere.

  Scar tossed two more cases into the shaft and turned to Kip.

  “You first.” As Scar prepared to hoist Kip into the vent, he added another request. “Squirm yourself around at the T. Slide the cases hard toward Em.”

  Kip didn’t take the time to consider the physics. Scar had a plan, and he was the team leader. No questions asked.

  Inside the shaft, Kip saw Emilie retreating with two cases. He followed Scar’s guidance and twisted his body until he lay perpendicular to the main shaft. As Scar tossed the last cases up, Kip grabbed them one at a time and propelled them across the smooth surface with all the strength he could muster in tight quarters. They slid more than halfway across where Em waited.

  “Two minups.”

  Scar pulled himself up through the vent with little apparent effort. Someday, Kip thought, I’ll have muscles like that.

  Kip waited until Scar passed then shimmied over, grabbed the mesh vent, and set it back in place. If anyone entered the armory before they finished the extraction, perhaps they wouldn’t make sense of the surprise until the ratworms were clear.

  Halfway to the hatch, Kip heard another warning on his pad.

  “One minup.”

  The narrow tunnel that had seemed so confining now felt safe, with a wide, beautiful exit only eens away. A path home, a heist for the ages.

  Even before he reached the hatch or started the descent, Kip allowed himself a second of pride. The nest would be alive for days talking of victory. When other Blends realized what the Pikers accomplished, they’d invite TimBob’s revolutionaries to join them in the final assault to take Sinquin.

  “Almost there,” he said. “What’s it looking like, Em? We loaded?”

  Silence.

  “Em? You there?” Kip’s voice cracked.

  Still nothing.

  She’s busy stacking the cases. Can’t talk.

  They intended to use the fourth Glide if the cargo was too large to stack on the other three and still allow room for one Piker per board. Scar planned to bring his Glide alongside the extra and stand between both as they descended together. It was risky as all holla, but they came in uncertain about the size of the haul – and TimBob was insistent on clearing out the armory.

  Kip figured they might not need it now, but he was last to emerge.

  His answer arrived when Scar cursed.

  “Slag it all!”

  “What?” Kip pushed forward, anxiety spiking.

  Scar didn’t answer, instead crawling through the opening and onto his waiting Glide. Kip’s wrist pad vibrated, but instead of Zero’s voice, only static crackled through. Time must have expired by now.

  Kip tapped it, checking other frequencies.

  “Zero? Ghost? Anyone copy? TimBob?”

  Individual words punched through the static.

  “—compromised—”

  “—abort—”

  “—EQ moving—”

  “—trap—”

  Behind him, Kip heard alarms inside EQ. He scrambled through the opening, emerging onto the narrow ledge where their Glides should have been waiting. Scar balanced on his board.

  Kip recognized the problem at once.

  “Where’s Em?”

  Two Glides were gone. So was Emilie.

  And the cases.

  Scar pointed downward without speaking. Kip followed his gaze, heart plummeting faster than any thermal descent.

  He saw a porta-lamp flickering in the darkness perhaps ten levels below and descending at a dangerous speed.

  “What the fring is she doing?” Kip whispered, disbelief numbing his thoughts.

  Through the static on his wrist pad, he caught TimBob’s voice, urgent and clear for just a moment:

  “… null-jacks on top of us … get out … the slags knew … setup …”

  “We have to go after her,” Kip said. “She’ll crash at that speed. What’s she …?”

  Kip tapped his wrist pad.

  “Em? Em? What the fring are you doing? Please talk to me.”

  Nothing.

  Scar told Kip to set his board for descent. As they started down, Kip faced a cold reality.

  “What’s happening, Scar? This weren’t the plan.”

  “You heard TimBob. It’s some kind of setup. It’s all gone to slag.”

  Kip understood the implication but didn’t buy it. No fringing way.

  “She heard the comms, too. She’s making sure the cargo reaches the drop point before those EQ slags get there. You’ll see.”

  “Wake up, String.” Scar’s voice cut like a blade. “She knew the score all along. I warned TimBob.”

  “Wait. You what?”

  “It don’t matter now.”

  They used the additional retros to accelerate the descent, but they did not gain on Em.

  “I don’t understand,” Kip said, tapping his wrist pad. “TimBob? You hear me?” Silence. “Zero? Ghost? Anybody?”

  As they passed L110, Scar shouted over a sudden rush of hot air:

  “We gotta stop short. They’ll jock us at 103.”

  “Who? EQ? No. You’re wrong. Em wouldn’t …”

  “You ready to take the chance, String? Fine. Keep going. There’s a hatch coming up at 106. I’m going in with the pipe-gnasher. Help me or don’t. We’re probably fringed no matter what.”

  No. She’d never do it. Why? It made no sense. Her smile, her touch, the kisses they shared. He loved her. She loved him.

  What else was there to know?

  But Scar sounded certain. What wasn’t he saying about Emilie? If there was any chance Scar was right …

  “I’ll help.”

  As they reached 106 and positioned the Glides for another difficult entry, Kip looked down three levels. He no longer saw the porta-lamp or anything else at the bottom of the tube.

  This will turn out OK. They misunderstood. She’s not a fringing traitor. Not Em.

  As Scar positioned the pipe-gnasher and Kip prepared to assist, the wrist pad exploded in crackling static again.

  “… full retreat …” TimBob’s voice crackled through static. “… scatterbox protocol … EQ on our ass …”

  “TimBob! Is the pickup still on?” Kip shouted into the pad.

  “… scatter, String …”

  The transmission cut out, leaving only static. Scatterbox meant everything had gone wrong; the planned extraction points were no longer safe. Each Piker was on their own, using pre-arranged escape routes. If lucky, they’d reconnect at the nest.

  Eventually.

  “Time to bail,” Scar yelled, pullig on the pipe-gnasher. “I need you, String.”

  As the echoes of alarms continued, they built quick momentum. This valve proved much more generous than L130. After the tenth rotation, the hatch hissed. Kip stood back as Scar did the honors, but slowly. For all they knew, enforcers awaited on the other side.

  Instead, an empty maintenance junction greeted them.

  “Clear,” Scar said, leading them inside and closing the hatch.

  They removed their hoods and breathed without the apparatus.

  “Why would she betray us?” Kip asked, the question burning in his throat.

  “Questions later,” Scar snapped. “Next move we make might be the last current we ever flow.”

  Kip understood the dilemma. This section of the Mega was residential, designed in a way that left few options for ratworms seeking alternative paths downward. The guarded public lifts were out of the question.

  Still, Kip couldn’t shake Emilie from his mind or heart. Somewhere below, she was either running for her life, too, making sure the stolen cargo reached Piker hands … or those hands belonged to enforcers. The latter notion sent a spike of pain through his chest sharper than any physical wound.

  The maintenance tunnel stretched before them; on the far side of that looming door, a public corridor.

  “No choice?” Kip whispered, trying to orient himself.

  Scar shook his head.

  “We’re gonna be simple pickings for about fifty units. Then we grab a maintenance ladder to the vent that cruises side-by-side to the levtrain station. For true, it’ll work. We’ll jag down to 97 in a snap. After that, we’ll ghost those fringing slags.”

  Kip nodded, pushing thoughts of Em aside. Survival came first. Everything else – betrayal, confusion, heartbreak – would have to wait. He opened his reader and searched for the infrastructure schematics. Scar’s assessment sounded right, but wouldn’t EQ enhance patrols near the station?

  “You’re right, Scar. It’s our best chance, for true.”

  They tried their wrist pads again but heard nothing on the other end except static. Did it mean the revolution had been lost? Or was there still hope that they weren’t the only Pikers free and trying to return home?