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She’s about to answer when I nod to the room.

It’s someone’s quarters. Across from a rumpled bed lies a mound of Gold sigils nearly half a meter high. I approach and see several carved figures sitting on a shelf, almost as if the sigils are an offering for them. A sacrifice. A military jacket hangs from a chair set in front of a table with organized rows of weapon parts and maintenance kits. The glass floor is covered with rugs. I lift one and see the township through the glass.

This musta been the room of the Mine Magistrate.

Ain’t hard to guess who lives here now.

I unbutton my pants and take a squat. “What are you doing?” Freckles says, wide-eyed.

“Had to piss. Seems like the best place. Look for a map.”

I search the room with Freckles when I’ve finished and we find a paper map taped to the wall above a communications console. I trace our route to the jail cells and then look down at the coms equipment.

It’s all alien to me.

I fiddle with the buttons, but only get bursts of static and the internal coms of the Red Hand. I stop on one when I hear a man shouting: “She got Darran, they’re coming…they’re—”

Something cuts the signal short. I hammer at a few more buttons.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Freckles asks.

“What does it look like?”

“Well, what are you tryin’ to do?”

“I’m trying to get a signal out.”

“Me pa was the radio signal operator in my camp. Let me try.” She edges me out of the chair. I breathe over her shoulder watching her work. “It might take a second.”

“We don’t have a second.”

She shrugs and goes back to working. Unable to just wait, I scour Harmony’s room for anything we can use. I find two razors in a box, and a heavy breastplate of a Gold’s pulseArmor sitting on a rack at the foot of the bed. I can’t tell if the battery works or not.

I try to concentrate to get some help from the parasite, but it is dormant. Freckles gives a little cheer and motions me over. “It’s only a broad transmission. I don’t know how to call anyone. Or if this thing even can.”

“How far will it go?” I ask, taking over the chair. She shakes her head. I look back at the microphone. If I broadcast Victra’s name, then her enemies will come here, and she seems to have a lot of those. Can this signal even reach Republic territory? They won’t beat the Ascomanni if they’re nearby, and may not be able to reach Victra if this is Obsidian territory. So who’s left?

With a smile, I lean toward the microphone.

TWO WEEKS OF SEARCHING in vain has netted us little but debris and close shaves with both Republic and Alltribe air forces. Electra and I have given up hope, and were it not for Pax, and had we someplace to go, we would have given up the search yesterday.

I drew the night shift today. As the kids grab a few hours’ sleep, I hunch over the controls and watch the fjords below. Our passive sensors throb, detecting no emergency transponders. Volga is dead. I run a finger along the scar forming over Electra’s incision. The heartspike the Alltribe put inside me jiggles within its container. Every day that passes makes my heart feel more and more like that spike, artificial and one big joke.

A weak signal crackles through the static. “Red…base at coordinates.” I frown and adjust the sensors. “Repeat, the whole bloodydamn…at 46 degrees…we…under siege. All…and enemies of Red Hand…call for your aid. Repeat…”

I know that voice as it rattles off the coordinates.

It comes from a ghost.

I trigger the ship’s internal alert systems at maximum volume. Half a minute later, Electra and Pax are stumbling through the hall rubbing sleep from their eyes. “If it’s another false alarm, I’m going to hack off your—”

I interrupt Electra and play the recording. The two kids hunker down in the seats and help me compile the message from the scattered fragments until it’s as clear as we can make it. Lyria is under siege at what she claims is the Red Hand headquarters. Her hail is for any and all enemies of the Red Hand to come to her aid. Lyria was likely kept in a cell near Volga. If she is alive, then Volga might be with her. I dare not even hope.

Pax immediately begins setting course for the coordinates. I slap his hand away. “If that’s the Red Hand headquarters, we’re gonna need more men.”

“Obsidian are scratched,” Electra says. “They’ll just capture us. Republic?”

“They won’t pay any attention to our hail,” Pax says. “We have emergency codes, but if there were Howlers on Mars, they would have answered our earlier broadcasts. Even if we can get the message to Uncle Kieran, it’ll be too late.”