Local Star Aimee Ogden (the lemonade war series txt) 📖

bottom of the next mountain of slop, and she started edging upward and forward as he called after her. “At best, the central power conduits are out of commission, at worst the whole station’s fried. Ambient energy’s getting drained every second keeping this place flush with oxygen, and there might be fifty thousand people to evacuate on just three shitting whaleships.”

“You think no one upstairs is working on that? We have our own problems to worry about.” She slipped on a soft spot and landed wrists-deep in sludge. “I need to find the port into Metal Reclamation.”

“I’m not convinced there’s anyone upstairs with the authority and-or know-how to worry about that.” He paused and groped in the dark for the back of her jacket; she switched on her fob’s spotlight to give them something to see by. “Can I just say, I can’t believe you lived in one of these.”

“Lots of kids do, on the big Habs like Rydoine. Probably on the bottom levels of planets like Ro, too. Anywhere people get packed in so tight that they don’t notice who falls through the cracks. Or care. And you get used to the smell.” That last was barely a lie. You couldn’t completely turn off the part of your brain screaming this is not normal, this is bad, this is wrong, even if you’d been mucking your entire life. Triz was born in the sludge and before the Tolvians found her she expected to die in the sludge. But gutterkids learned to ignore that little niggling voice, at least if they wanted to eat another day.

She tripped, and realized the echo of their movements had changed: a muting of their clangs and muttered curses. Something had shifted in the shape of their echoes . . .

Oh, no. Triz stilled, listening. But she felt the dull distant vibrations, rolling up from the floor through her bones, before her ears caught it. Of course. Listening with your feet was an old gutterkid trick; how had she ever managed to forget it? “We need to hurry up.”

Kalo made a retching sound. “No arguments here.”

“No, I mean, we really need to hurry up.” Triz was half-groping, half-running through the sludge now. “Do you hear that?”

“Nine arms of—” He stilled, trying to get a hold of the noise. “Is that the turning arm?”

“Got to pulverize and aerate the waste,” Triz gasped, pawing her way forward. “Come on and help me look unless you want to get shredded!”

“I don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

“A vent, there’s supposed to be a vent here somewhere—”

“What did you used to do when turning happened back when you lived in one of these things?”

“Avoided it.”

They struggled side by side through the muck. They were up to their knees now; higher for Triz, and the sludge had developed a distinct current that threatened to suck them under. She screeched when she slipped, and Kalo caught her by the elbow before she got a faceful of antique food. “It’s getting louder!” he shouted in her ear.

“I know.” Even over the growing hum of the turning arm, her raised voice had echoed oddly. She shifted the light from the fob, turning to her left, it illuminated a stained, pitted wall. “Ha!”

Kalo wiped his face on the shoulder of her jacket, for all the good that would do him. “Please tell me we can get out of here now.”

“I think so. Give me a hand.” He bent his knee, and she planted a foot on it to push upward. When she walked her fingers along the wall above and to her right, the sharp edge of a vent bit into her finger. “Ouch!”

“Triz—” When she flicked the fob light out over his head, she could see the faint outline of the turning arm, whipping through the sludge, grinding spicebread rinds and bioplast wrappers to a pulp.

“Here we go.”She pulled the vent cover free and pulled herself upward with help from Kalo, who scrabbled up close behind with only the assistance afforded by a prolific stream of curses. Once they both made it into the vent duct, they lay still, not quite touching. When the turning arm passed, it splattered them—mostly Kalo—with a last layer of organic gunk. One final indignity.

Finally, after they’d caught their breath, Kalo crawled forward, elbows ringing hollowly against the bottom of the vent, and laid his forehead against her knees. “Gods. Let’s definitely never compare shitty childhoods again because you win, now and forever.”

She ran one hand through his hair and cast aside a greasy strand of organic who-knew-what. “You ready for Metal Reclamation?”

“Does it smell better in there? Then, please, lead the way. We’ve got a Hab to save.”

“A friend to rescue, I think you mean,” Triz corrected. “Whatever’s happening, I think it bumps rescuing Casne up to Plan Alpha.”

“Triz—”

“The Ceebees have got to be behind this.” It wasn’t a question, but his silence answered her anyway. “If nothing else, we need Casne’s help to stop whatever it is they’ve planned. Unless you’re a strategy master, as well as fighter jock now, and just didn’t think to mention it.” With some effort, Triz turned in the narrow space to bring her boots up against the plastic vent on the far side. She bent her knees, then paused. “I should warn you, the Reclamation electrobacteria might damage your fob. They’re hungry little monsters.”

“Oh—um, sure.” Kalo stumbled a little over the sudden change in conversational direction. “Well. I guess fobs aren’t going to be a lot of help to us anyway as long as the Hab’s gone dark. And . . .” A slight scuffling in the duct behind her. “Will they eat any other metal bits on me, I guess? Like, uh.” He hesitated. “. . . Boot grommets?”

“If your shoes come untied I’m not carrying you.” Triz struck hard against the plastic and pushed the broken pieces out of the way with her feet. A glimmer of light painted the jagged opening a sickly green; some devices must