Impact by Rob Boffard Read Free Book Online

light, wrapped around one of the thin plants.
That means the next one should be visible from here.
    But it isn’t.
    I backtrack. Panic is sparking in my chest, tightening around my lungs, but I push it away. I look left, then right, then turn a slow circle.
    Nothing. I can’t see it. Did it come loose? Did the wind take it? I look downhill, but I may as well be staring into a black hole. There are nothing but shadows down there.
    All I have to do is head uphill.
    I keep walking, still looking for the tag, checking back over my shoulder for the previous one. And just at the point where I can’t spot it any more, the slope changes. It’s as if I’ve walked over the crest of a small hill, because the ground drops downwards again. I didn’t see that on my way to the stream.
    I keep going–and walk right into a wall of soil. Part of the slope is exposed, with roots poking through it, scratching my face.
    â€œSyria!” I shout. My voice echoes into the distance.

13
Prakesh
    There’s a fire.
    It’s not big, and it won’t last the night, but it’s burning well enough for now. There are trees surrounding the lake; most of them are stunted and dead, their dry branches and leaves simple to collect. It was easy for Prakesh to pull in some of the burning fuel on the water’s surface, lighting a dry branch while the others build a small pile behind him.
    The
Furor
escape pod has long since vanished below the surface of the lake–and it
is
a lake, long and thin, stretching further than the eye can see. The forest around them is dense and dark, the wind rattling through the dry wood. The sun has slipped below the horizon, and the sky is fading to a dark blue above their heads.
    The survivors huddle around the fire. Like everyone else, Prakesh is soaked to the skin, and he can’t stop shivering. Every part of him, from his ears to the toes in his squelching, sodden shoes, is numb.
    And yet, despite everything that’s happened, he feels excitement. These trees didn’t grow in a lab: they’re entirely natural, sprouting from soil that might not have been touched by humans in a hundred years. He can’t wait for dawn, can’t wait to see what the forest actually looks like in the daylight.
    Of course, that assumes they
make
it to daylight. Prakesh is painfully aware of how poor a fire is at transferring heat. They should find something to put behind them, something to reflect the warmth back. But he can barely move, doesn’t even want to try it. They’re lucky they’ve got a fire going in the first place–without it, they wouldn’t last long.
    â€œRub your chests,” says Janice Okwembu. She’s kneeling close to the flames, and her eyes land on each survivor in turn. There are six of them: Prakesh, Carver, Mikhail, Okwembu, the pilot, plus the man who was sitting opposite him on the
Furor
, the one praying to every god he could think of. Prakesh struggles to remember his name.
Clay
. That was it. He’s young, slightly plump, with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. He’s rubbing the chest of the sixth survivor: the pilot, one of the
Shinso
’s original crew. The man is barely conscious, a thick trail of drool snaking down his chin.
Kahlil
, Prakesh thinks.
His name’s Kahlil.
    No one else in the escape pod made it to shore.
    Carver gets up. He has to do it in stages, going first to both knees, then to just one, then to his feet, tottering like an infant taking his first steps. He’s breathing hard–his jacket is gone, lost in the lake, and his shirt is a sodden, steaming mass.
    â€œSo now what?” he says.
    Mikhail seems to be less affected by the cold than the others. He clears his throat, but Okwembu gets there first. “Well,” she says. “We—”
    Carver lurches forward, moving on legs that look as stiff as the dead branches on the trees. He’s heading right for Okwembu, his fists