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“Alex—” He doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on the bombs that already race down through the atmosphere. This is my fault, he will think. I actually do slap him.

His eyes light up in anger.

“Contact Feranis. Tell her to expect heavy mechanized assault from the northwest from landfall on the Talarian Peninsula. She’ll have to hold Tyche without the Morning Star. I need Star and the Drachenjäger cohorts at…” I glance at the map.

He intuits my purpose. “Sector Seventeen.”

I nod. “And call your cousin, tell him to meet us at Skyhook Eleven. I’ll ride with the Arcosians today.” He rushes to the communications room as I hail Orion. Her bright eyes are glazed. She’s in the synaptic drift with the storm.

“How are your storm pilots holding up?”

“Handling…the flow. There have been spikes, but…within range.”

“How long till electronic interference?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Can you slow it to twenty?”

“We will try. Must concentrate now.”

I click out. The rest of the Howlers haven’t moved. They watch the friction trails, a sense of doom upon them.

“You waiting for a formal invitation from the Fury? Asses to the armory. Iron up.” Finally, they move. I shout up the corridor to my pilot. “Colloway! Get me to my army.”

The ship accelerates, nearly knocking me from my feet. Steadying myself, I take the com off the wall and patch my signal into the powerful transmitters on Tyche to speak to my army while I still can.

“This is Reaper. Broken Sky. Repeat, Broken Sky. The enemy has breached the northern shields. Missiles are already en route. Expect heavy bombardment of north Helios and coms blackout presently. Operation Voyager Cloak is canceled. All officers, open your blackpacks. Keyword: hazard bedlam.”

Across Helios, thousands of low-ranking officers, from infantry centurions to ripWing squadron captains, will be opening metal canisters to receive briefings on Operation Tartarus and the conditions they will soon face.

“Operation Tartarus is now live. Second Army, abandon your positions and rally at Red Reach. First Army and all other Cloak units, rally at Sector Seventeen. Cover is inbound. Third Army hold in the Children until the Rain comes, then rally to Kydon. Legate Telemanus is on her way.”

About to bark out a curt farewell, I pause, seeing that none of my Howlers have moved. The roughest veterans of a generation stare at me, knowing all is lost. Eight million more are out there in the desert, mountains, coastal jungles, without shields. They need more than orders.

I rasp into the com.

“Brothers, sisters. Atalantia has come for our lives. She thinks we wait looking at the sky for rescue, that fear has made a home in our hearts. She thinks we have forgotten ourselves. But I have not forgotten what we are. We fought in the ruins of Luna. On the plains and oceans of Earth. In the mountains and the tunnels of Mars. Whatever soil we have stood upon, we have freed. We are not marooned refugees waiting for rescue. We are not prisoners waiting for chains. We are the Free Legions. And today we become the rock they break upon. All legions, prepare for Rain.”

Then the horizon stutters with white light, and the mushrooms grow.

“LET FALL THE RAIN.”

The disembodied voice of Atalantia comes through the communications nodes secured on my auditory canals. Like a conductor’s baton, it sweeps the mu

sic into motion.

Thumpthump­thumpthump­thump, go the spitTubes.

My world turns and my starShell is ingested into the honeycomb of the wall. Outside the shell’s facial shield, the throat of the spitTube pulses with red light.

Thumpthump­thumpthump­thump. Another hundred men.

When falls the Rain, be brave. Be brave, my grandfather said.

I do not feel brave. I am not the center of this symphony. No one even cares I’m here.

Where is the immortal majesty the poets promised me? Where is the stern will my ancestors preached to their children?