Page 55 of Cage of Starlight

He and Niela refine their plan as they travel.

If there’s a full unit, they’ll commandeer the services of its Porter to get Niela to the Compound.

With her Core, she’ll be able to travel freely within its walls to warn her mother and maybe even Tory.

Iri and Sena will use whatever other means of transport they find.

They come to the camp from the trees, the dampness of fallen leaves muffling their steps.

A couple soldiers playing cards on an overturned box startle as Sena walks from the woods. He shouldn’t be surprised. His arm and shoulder are dark with blood. He probably looks more like a corpse than most corpses.

The soldiers jerk to clumsy attention. A few cards flutter to the ground, and Sena digs deep to find the perfect soldier Kirlov created in him. It doesn’t fit well on him anymore, if it ever did. “At ease,” he says. “Where’s the officer in charge?”

“Out on a search, sir. We—uh, reports of activity in the area. Are you . . .?”

“Your Porter,” Sena barks. “I’ve come into possession of information I urgently need to convey to General Renstein. I need immediate transport to the Compound.” Hopefully they don’t know much about him, don’t realize he can’t be ’ported.

“Sir . . .?”

The nearest soldier, thick and dark haired, steps forward. “Our Porter’s out scouting. She’ll be back in a few hours.”

The Compound will be burning in a few hours, and Tory with it. “I said urgent , soldier.”

The second guy speaks up. “Why not radio? You—where’s your communicator?”

Sena’s gloved hand slides over his empty pocket, and the soldier’s eyes linger on the blood dried stiff into his glove. “It’s gone. And the information is sensitive; better to deliver it in person.”

The soldier casts a narrow-eyed glance into the trees, and Sena’s stomach twists. He knows he looks suspicious, sounds suspicious.

“Sure, all right. Sir,” the dark-haired soldier adds.

“Gimme a second, maybe they can send someone.” He paces over to the long-distance communication rig set up in the rear of the personnel truck.

Sena hears snatches of conversation. “Yeah, ours is out on patrol,” and “Yessir, says it’s urgent.

He’s a real mess, too, so I’m inclined to believe him.

If you have anyone you could spare . . . ” He waves Sena over.

The first step nearly fells him. His vision blanks, knees wobbling, but he stays on his feet.

He has to. They have so little time. The world flickers back in, grayed-out and flat, just as he’s arriving at the truck. He grabs the back of the truck to support himself.

“Got some questions before they’ll send a Porter out.” The soldier lifts his clunky headphones off and passes them over. “Here, I’ll trade you.”

Sena steps in front of the bulky rig, dropping the hand not holding him up over the dials.

The earphones blanket the ambient noise of the world in sweet silence—so when the voice comes through the headphones and pierces Sena’s eardrums, it’s everything.

It’s his whole world.

Cold and crystal clear, Kirlov’s voice says, “Our Porters are indisposed. I’ve been informed there’s urgent information you wish to convey. This is a secure channel. Report.”

Sena’s heart staggers, stabs at him with a spike of whole-body pain. He shudders, knees giving out, and grips the back of the truck. He makes a noise, he thinks—a whimper of reflexive fear he swallows before it can escape him.

Sound flees. He’s freezing— dunked underwater, the rush of a mad river all around him. He’s drowning, hauling mud into his lungs with every failed breath. His vision wavers.

“ Soldier, report. ”

Irritation, knife-sharp, from miles away, from somewhere above the water.

Water everywhere and his lips are bone-dry.

“ My pa— . . . nce is limi— ”

Crackling. Fragmentation.

Blissful silence.

Rust flecks floating away on the current, blood red.

“Shit!”

The earphones tear away from his head, and the world floods back in. The soldier stares wide-eyed at Sena, somewhere between horrified and lost. “What did you do ?”

Beneath his hand, the massive communications rig has aged, polished chrome dials flaked away, metal body rusted through and pocked with holes.

Its exposed innards share the same fate, tarnished and wrinkled and rusted-out in turns.

Something fails, spits sparks over Sena’s skin.

They hiss out on the still-wet blood on his sleeve.

Sena tears his gloved hand away and stumbles back. “I . . .”

Iri and Niela burst from the woods at the commotion, and the soldier raises his gun and swings wide.

“Don’t!” Sena manages, just as Niela yells, “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”

The soldier grips his rifle, but he can’t seem to decide where to point it.

Niela, still blood-smeared from front to feet, glares at him. Iri, glancing narrow-eyed between the soldiers, rolls a little ball of flame from palm to palm.

It’s almost funny. It should be funny.

Fear hollows Sena out, and the laugh that escapes him is hysterical and hollow.

Going back to the Compound means going back to Kirlov, with the watch that could still kill Sena, with brutal expectations he can never live up to. Breath whistles in and out of him. Pain crashes cymbal-loud and all-consuming in his chest.

But Tory’s at the Compound, too.

“I need . . .” He finds his way around to the driver’s seat of the vehicle. Keys on the dash. He snatches them. “I need to take this.”

Part of his training was learning how to operate one of these back when the first ones were manufactured. It’s been a long time, but he’ll make do.

The soldier’s expression goes from slack shock to belligerence in an instant, grip on his rifle tightening. “Can’t let you do that.”

Niela stalks up behind him. “Don’t think you can stop him.”

The engine growls to life, too loud, like nettles on his skin. His vision fizzes gray and he swallows a surge of sickness. Niela pushes him out of the driver’s seat. “Gimme the keys, Vantaras. You’re in no condition to drive.”

“Have you used one of these?”

“Nope. But I saw someone else do it, once.”

Obligingly, Sena shifts the gear that will allow the vehicle to move forward.

Niela wiggles the steering wheel and shifts her feet until she finds the acceleration pedal. “Ah, yes, this’ll be easy. Iri? Get the med kit. This boy needs help.”

Then she floors it, tossing both the unsecured communication rig and an enterprising soldier attempting to climb into the back of the vehicle with a crash and a guttural yell.

“Come on, come on,” she mutters. The truck jolts over every bump, the needle of its speed gauge shivering into the red zone. “We don’t have time for this.”