Providence - Max Barry Page 0,62

the yellow-and-black markings that outlined where a blast door might come to rest. Then he returned to the adjunct corridor. “Beanfield’s clear. You can drop the door.”

“What about you?”

“I’m getting the guns.”

Jackson: “Don’t do that, Anders.”

“Anders, you’re heading right at one. Don’t be stupid.”

“Anders, go back,” Jackson said, her voice thick with anger. She was hellishly sexy when she was angry. He’d told her this once and her jaw had flexed and he could see he’d offended her. But he’d meant it as a compliment. He would genuinely fuck Jackson in a heartbeat if she promised to stay mad at him the whole time.

“Salamanders on the ship,” he said. “Somebody needs to shoot these fuckers.”

“Don’t do this, Anders.”

“Just open the locker, Gilly.”

“I don’t even know if I can!”

Jackson, resigned: “You can. Do it.”

“Thank you,” Anders said. He kept moving, searching for the telltale red ring. The glowstick was fucking with his vision, washing everything blue, coaxing glints and reflections from every surface. Finally he saw it, a solid box projecting from the wall, red light like a halo. “I’m there. Gilly?”

“Working on it.”

He pulled the release but it was not generous and did not open. He’d had an argument with Beanfield about this very thing, saying, What kind of asshat thinks it’s a good idea to put the small arms behind a lock we can’t open? and Beanfield had patiently explained that, essentially, people like her and Jackson did not want people like Anders getting their hands on a gun whenever they felt like it. Which, he had to admit, had a kind of sense to it. But now look at this. Look at this shit right here.

“Picking up more incoming,” Jackson said. “A lot more. A thousand or so. The ship is lost. Evacuate.”

“Now, hold on,” Gilly said.

He peered into the darkness. Since he’d stopped moving, he could hear a sound from ahead, something dragging. He listened until it stopped. “Gilly?”

“The ship isn’t far off attaining full function,” Gilly said. “Twenty minutes. Maybe less.”

“We’re not going to be here in twenty minutes. And the ship can’t help us purge internal threats.”

“We can’t evacuate!”

He got the heebie-jeebies and whipped around. The light jumped crazily, throwing salamander shadows everywhere. But there was nothing. The dragging came again, ahead, louder. “Gilly!” He tested the release again. This fucking ship. It had wanted to kill him since the day he boarded, and here it was again.

“Got it,” Gilly said.

The ring glowed green. Cylinders whined, retracting. The dragging became a scraping, or a scrambling, maybe, was a better way to put it, something huge and hungry moving toward him in the dark, and he pulled the release and still the fucking thing did nothing, until at last the locks fully retracted and the door popped open and inside was everything he wanted, pistols, needlers lined up as neatly as you please, and, best of all, a stock VX-10 rifle, better known in the popular press as a lightning gun. He snapped it free and thumbed for power. He slotted the butt against his shoulder. He trained the barrel into the heart of the darkness.

Three green lights glowed on in a line along the barrel, one after the other. A high whine tickled the back of his eardrums. Some people couldn’t hear that sound. They didn’t know what they were missing, in Anders’s opinion. He held position, measuring his breathing, keeping the weapon pointed into the darkness. Just silence, now.

Hey, Pauly.

Sweat dripped into his eye. He stayed where he was. He could wait. He knew how to do that.

“Anders?”

It was only Gilly in his ear, but he squeezed the trigger and the gun barked and kicked against his shoulder and spat lightning down the corridor. The corridor bleached and splintered into brilliance. Fat licks of electricity scoured the walls and ceiling. But there was nothing there, only empty corridor. He released the trigger and darkness fell, then silence, except for the tingling whine of the gun and his own breathing. Ozone crawled up his