“Keep those soldiers busy, yeah? Make them hate you.”
“That’s my specialty.” I gesture up at the slanted roofs and crumbling walls towering around us. To a Runner, those roofs are like giant slides made smooth by ice. I say a silent thanks to Tess—already the blue pill is warming me up from the inside out, as soothing as a bowl of hot soup on an icy evening.
Pascao gives me a wide grin. “Well then. Let’s show them a good time.”
I watch the others hurry away along the railroad tracks through the veil of sleet. Then I step farther into the shadows and study the buildings. Each one is old and pockmarked with footholds—and to make things even more fun, they all have rusted metal beams crisscrossing their walls. Some have top floors that are completely blown off and open to the night sky. Others have slanted, tiled roofs. In spite of everything, I can’t help feeling a twinge of anticipation. These buildings are a Runner’s paradise.
I turn back down the street toward the train station. There are at least two clusters of soldiers, maybe more that I can’t see on the other side. Some are lined up along the tracks in expectation, their rifles hoisted, the black stripes across their eyes gleaming wetly in the rain. I reach up to my face and check my own stripe. Then I pull my military cap down tighter on my head. Showtime.
I get a good foothold on one wall and shimmy my way up toward the roof. Every time I tuck my leg in, my calf brushes against my artificial leg implant. The metal is freezing cold, even through fabric. Several seconds later, I’m perched behind a crumbling chimney three stories up. From here I can see that, just as I expected, there’s a third group of soldiers on the other side of the train station. I make my way to the other end of the building and then leap silently from building to building until I’m on top of a slanted roof. Now I’m close enough to see expressions on soldiers’ faces. I reach into my jacket, make sure my dust bomb is still mostly dry, and then crouch there on the roof to wait.
A few minutes pass.
Then I stand up, pull out the dust bomb, and fling it as far from the train station as I can.
Boom. It explodes in a giant cloud the moment it hits the ground. Instantly the dust swallows up that entire block and races down the streets in rolling waves. I hear shouts from the soldiers near the train station—one of them yells out, “There! Three blocks down!” Way to state the obvious, soldier. A group of them breaks away from the station and starts hurrying toward where the dust cloud has blanketed the streets.
I slide down the slanted roof. Shingles break off here and there, sending showers of ice mist into the air, but through all the shouting and running below me I can’t even hear myself. The roof itself is slippery as wet glass. I pick up speed. The sleet whips harder against my cheeks—I brace myself as I reach the bottom of the roof and then launch into the air. From the ground I probably look like some sort of phantom.
My boots hit the slanted roof of the next building, this one right next to the train station. The soldiers still there are distracted, staring down the street toward the dust. I do a little hop at the bottom of this second roof, then grab on to the side of a streetlight and slide all the way down the pole to the ground. I land with a quick, muffled crunch on the pavement’s streaks of ice.
“Follow me!” I shout at the soldiers. They see me for the first time, just another nondescript soldier with a dark uniform and black stripe across the eyes. “There’s an attack on one of our warehouses. Could be the Patriots finally showing their faces.” I gesture to both of the groups left. “Everyone. Commander’s orders, hurry!” Then I turn on my heels and start running away from them.
Sure enough, the sound of their pounding boots soon follows. No way would these soldiers dare risk disobeying their commander, even if it means leaving the station momentarily unguarded. Sometimes you gotta love the Republic’s iron discipline.
I keep running.
When I’ve led the soldiers four or five blocks down, past the dust cloud and several warehouses, I suddenly veer off down a narrow corridor. Before they can turn the corner, I run straight at one of the alley’s walls—and when I’m several feet away I jump up and kick off against the brick. My hands shoot out. I grab on to the second floor’s ledge and it’s only the work of the moment to spring up to it. My feet land solidly on the ledge.
By the time the soldiers have rushed into the same alley, I’ve melted into the shadowed crevice of a second-floor window. I hear the first ones pause, then their bewildered exclamations. Now’s as good a time as any, I think. I reach up and pull my cap off, letting my white-blond hair tumble loose. One of the soldiers turns his head up fast enough to see me dart out of the window crevice and turn the corner from the second-floor ledge. “Did you see that?” someone shouts incredulously. “Was that Day?” As I jam my feet into the spaces of old bricks and pull myself up to the third floor, the soldiers’ tones go from confused to angry. Someone shouts at the others to shoot me down. I just grit my teeth and leap up to the third floor.
The first bullets ricochet off the wall. One hits inches away from my hand. I don’t stop—instead I lunge up toward the top floor and swing up onto the slanted rooftop in one move. More sparks light up the bricks below me. Off in the distance I see the station—the train’s arrived, half hidden behind steam, and parked unattended except for several soldiers who have stepped off the train itself.
I scamper up the roof and slide down its other half, then take another flying leap to the next roof. Down below, some of the soldiers have started rushing back toward the train. Maybe they’ve finally realized that this is all a diversion. My eyes leave the station only when I go flying onto another rooftop.