This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2015

A Kindle Scout selection

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Acknowledgments

Thanks to our fans, both old and new, for helping us on this wonderful journey. An extra special thanks to our readers: David Atkinson and Emil Girardin, both of whom were gracious enough to read this multiple times. An extra, extra special thanks to my personal editor, Dagny Holt, whose insight is absolutely necessary to the success of this story.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1: Skye Mitchell

Chapter 2: Benjamin Redcloud

Chapter 3: Gabriel Martinez

Chapter 4: Cleopatra Kashani

Chapter 5: Seamus Oshiro

Chapter 6: Gabriel Martinez

Chapter 7: Skye Mitchell

Chapter 8: Benjamin Redcloud

Chapter 9: Skye Mitchell

Chapter 10: Gabriel Martinez

Chapter 11: Skye Mitchell

Chapter 12: Benjamin Redcloud

Chapter 13: Cleopatra Kashani

Chapter 14: Benjamin Redcloud

Chapter 15: Skye Mitchell

Chapter 16: Cleopatra Kashani

Chapter 17: Gabriel Martinez

Chapter 18: Seamus Oshiro

Chapter 19: Benjamin Redcloud

Chapter 20: Skye Mitchell

Chapter 21: Gabriel Martinez

Chapter 22: Skye Mitchell

Chapter 23: Seamus Oshiro

Prologue

Her heart hammered wildly as she ran. Her ears strained for sounds of pursuit over the whoosh and thrum of her own blood. She dared not turn around. She clung to the hope that it wasn’t behind her, following, hunting.

Running was all that mattered now.

Her foot caught on a tree root and she nearly fell. She reached out, palms scraping against the furrowed bark of a tupelo tree. Her eyes probed the shadows for a clear path. Bushes and thick undergrowth choked much of the forest floor but there were places near the tallest trees where the ground was mostly clear. She zig-zagged through the barest places, her shoes digging into soft dirt and rotted leaves, her legs numb with exertion. She’d been running for so long that the burning pain of overworked muscles had grown dull.

She could do it. She could escape with her life. She had to.

Then she heard it: a low, haunting moan that seemed to echo from all around. Her breaths escaped in raspy coughs. There were no other sounds in the forest, not even the rustle of a bird or the harsh chirr of katydids calling for mates. The forest knew what was following her and wanted no part of it. She was losing light; the sun had set. The last traces of rosy dusk filtered through the forest canopy wherever the leaves allowed. Where branches intertwined thickly there were only dark shadows.

Just ahead, the edge of a ravine leapt up from the gloom. She skidded to a stop, narrowly avoiding a nasty tumble down the dangerously steep slope. She looked around. To the right, an opening in the leaves above provided a reprieve from the heavy shadows but the forest floor was heavily roped with twining strands of ivy. To the left, the forest thickened into a mass of dark, broad trunks but at least there would be less undergrowth.

Suddenly, the area all around her began to glow, as if some sinister light was slowly coming to life. Thin pine and tupelo trunks were painted in a fiery red light, bright enough that each tree cast a bloody shadow. The creature was near. She ran left, thinking about her family and blinking away stinging hot tears. She hoped to see them again. She hoped to tell her husband and her daughter how much she loved them both. Her body, numb, expected death at any moment but she refused to give in. Ahead, she could see an end to the forest. And something else . . .

A fence! An old fence whose links were being pulled earthward by heavy vines with thick stalks and fat, crescent-shaped leaves. And beyond the fence: a dim pool of white light illuminated a squat building at the far edge of a barren lot. The building must be an emergency supply depot, no doubt running solely on stored energy from the solar panels attached to the roof, slanted up at the sky. The depot would contain emergency equipment and maybe some kind of weapon. It would have a communication system, too.

She could jump the fence. She could take one step on the constrained chain links and reach the top and hop over. She could reach the building. She could survive. She’d carried a child in her womb for nine months, seven days and an additional fifteen excruciating hours of labor. Her back had endured. Her legs had endured. This pain she felt in her shins now? It was nothing. It was an annoyance.

She could do this. She could send a warning.

All around her, the forest glowed a dark red, as if fire lurked deep inside the trunk of each tree.

She reached the fence and jumped, sticking out one foot and pushing off the damaged diamond-linked metal wires. Her hands fumbled with the cold bar at the top and she held on for dear life, the toes of her shoes digging between the wires. She pulled herself over, dropping to the ground. A sharp pain coursed through her left ankle. She tried to put weight on the joint; it was impossible.

Her family, Kaya and Gustav, if she could send out a warning, then someone would know, someone could ensure her daughter and her husband would be safe.

She limped toward the building. From behind her came another low moan that seemed to vibrate all the way to the marrow of her bones. Bitter bile rose from her stomach to coat the back of her tongue. The sun was long gone behind the mountains beyond the squat building but the dark red glow remained. The creature was behind her, so close that she cast a shadow in its bloody light. Each move it made caused her shadow bounce and stretch, as though desperate to abandon her.

“Kaya . . . Gustav . . . I love you,” she rasped, watching her shadow shorten. Her hunter was closing in. It would overcome her and steal the life from her, an alien thief, a parasite. A ghost.

A ghost with dangerous secrets.

She had to survive. If she didn’t get the warning out, the last of Earth’s remaining cities could be doomed. Her family . . . she shuddered to think. They’d been so wrong. So wrong about everything. They thought they knew their enemy. This creature closing in on her, this ghost, they did not know it as well as they thought.

She was close to the door of the building now. She could see its touchscreen lock — her thumbprint would open it. And then all that mattered was sending the warning. She thought of her Kaya, and how last she saw her had been almost a year ago, and Kaya had just started primary school and had become obsessed with the periodic table and used pastels to color in the families of elements. Uranium. Neptunium. Phenocyte. She had been so proud of her daughter. Her two-week leave had made her ache to retire from her position so she could return home for good.

But the research was important. The secrets they were uncovering . . .

The door! She pressed her shaky thumb to the touchscreen. A green light blinked on. Her brain allowed an optimistic surge of dopamine. She grabbed the handle to the door and pulled.

The door refused to open.

“No!” she shouted. The bloody glow spread over the exterior of the building. The creature behind her advanced and her shadow seemed to duck down in terror. She could not hear her hunter moving closer . . . she could feel it. The soft hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She pressed her thumb to the touchscreen again and again its light turned green. She tried the door again.

Again it refused.

“Please!” she screamed, punching the touchscreen again and again with the palm of her hand. A click — a click! She tried the door again.

This time it opened.

She could get away —

She —

Chapter 1: Skye Mitchell

Clan Sparta

The train moved rapidly over its mag-rail, shuddering ever so slightly as it turned north toward downtown Neo Berlin. Skye’s memory automatically recalled all the relevant information that had been drilled into her brain by Spartan drillmasters. Twenty million people. Fifty-seven skyscrapers taller than fifty stories. Three Phenocyte reactors — two to power the city, one to power the invisible energy shield.

103 VR cannons.

Ten thousand Spartans stationed inside the city proper.

Well . . . ten thousand and three. Technically.

Skye turned and glanced down at her brother. He was sitting beside her, staring at the opposite window as the tunnel lights zoomed by. His curly brown hair was getting too long; it would need to be cut soon to maintain regulation length. Her eyes were drawn of their own accord to the narrow, puckered scar on his right cheek.

“A scar is a badge,” Father had once told Cassidy. He’d said it with pride.

Cassy had only forced a smile, saying nothing. That had been months ago.

The scar would probably always be with her brother. A reminder of the training accident. A reminder of a mistake made during a rifle-training exercise, when all of the 13-year-olds — the Young Adults — crawled in mud underneath razor wire before swarming a hologram of a Specter.

The enemy.

Some of the kids fired while still running, afraid of the life-like creature whose pre-programmed motions only allowed it to pace and watch its enemies close in. It was a Sebecus Specter, the kind that looked like a humanoid crocodile, with a long snout and a long tail and a row of diamond-shaped spikes along its back.

If it was real, it wouldn’t have waited for the kids to surround it.

Skye remembered watching her brother getting stuck underneath the web of razor wire, crying when one of the barbs sliced his cheek. He’d looked so foolish. All of the kids had looked foolish. Too young. Too little.

But I looked the same at that age, no doubt.

It was funny, but the way Skye remembered it, the Young Adult training had seemed too grown-up. Too real. So very serious, with live VR ammunition in the pistols and the eerie, haunting moans of the Specters piped in through loudspeakers. The first real training to become a Spartan.

That had been five years ago. Now, she was a New Adult.

“Cassidy.”

Father was standing just beyond the rows of seats lining the train car, his hand resting on the back of the conductor’s chair. The conductor wore Clan Sparta’s traditional red service uniform. One could mistake him for an Elite, except that he was piloting the mag-train, which was obviously not a coveted position. In fact, the man was most likely not even driving at all. The mag-train had an autopilot feature.

But of course any autopilot program worth a darn was written by someone in Clan Persia. And of course Father didn’t trust Clan Persia any more than he trusted Clan Athens. And so obviously the autopilot had been turned off and the conductor was indeed driving the train using the complex array of brightly colored buttons on the massive glass touchscreen console. It was a thankless task and a waste of a soldier.

Father could be just a little paranoid from time to time.

He was looking at Cassidy with narrowed eyes. His upper lip ticked — it was barely visible underneath his heavy white beard. He’d lost most of the hair on his head over the years and had been happy to lose it. No Athenian gene therapy or topical treatments for him; no, he wanted to go bald just like his ancestors did and relished the opportunity to show that he wasn’t moved by vanity. Just because baldness could be cured didn’t mean it needed to. And where some equated baldness with weakness, Father had nothing he needed to prove. His Coterie had killed numerous Specters in the course of their duty.

And that meant glory. Glory was earned. Glory was owned. Glory was affixed to one’s chest in the form of medals and colored ribbons. In Clan Sparta, glory was everything.

Father was off-duty for the day but still wore his Spartan dress uniform, complete with the honorary red half-cape hanging over his shoulder. His cape was affixed with a gold chain. The matching gold buttons on his uniform strained in their buttonholes to keep the fabric in place around his broad chest. He’d rolled up the cuffs of his sleeves, and his narrow wrists belied his otherwise vigorous appearance. He was getting old. Soon, younger Spartan officers would begin challenging his authority.

But Father wouldn’t give in.

When they arrived at Parliament, Father would unroll his sleeves and put on his black gloves to hide his thin wrists. He always did that, Skye noticed.

“Cassidy. What is a Specter?”

“The enemy,” Cassidy whispered.

Skye nudged him. “Speak louder.”

“The ENEMY.”

“Cassidy, how do you destroy a Specter?”

Her brother’s hands caught Skye’s attention. His fingers were twiddling madly. He wouldn’t look at Father. “VR bullets.”

“Made of?”

“Electricity.”

“Explain.”

“A pulse.”

“Explain.” The strain in Father’s voice was obvious. Cassy’s hands briefly clutched the red cushion of his seat, then returned to his lap. The seats had no armrests. Clan Sparta’s mag-train was designed to transport as many soldiers as possible. That meant tight seats along one wall and a weapons locker along the opposite wall. A few windows, only to provide a visual of the field.

Don’t let your nerves get to you, Cassy, she thought. Don’t do it . . .

“A proton pulse,” Cassy whispered. He had a high-pitched voice, soft. It already sounded weak, but when he whispered it made him sound almost pathetic. Father hated when Cassy whispered.

“Cassidy. How do they hunt? Speak up now.”

He shrugged. Finally, he couldn’t control himself. His hand went to his mouth. He began biting nervously at his knuckles. With one long stride, Father was in front of them both. He slapped Cassy across his face. Cassy’s eyes welled with tears. He stared at Father’s gold belt buckle.

Skye fought the urge to flinch. Flinching was a sign of weakness. She wanted to protect her brother but knew any gesture to comfort the boy — even so much as wiping the tear off his cheek — would only set Father’s rage upon her instead. She often wondered why he was so harsh, so cold. Perhaps it was because Father was not their biological father. They’d both been created in a test tube, the product of Athenian in-vitro fertilization. Both Skye’s and Cassidy’s parents were nothing more than the frozen eggs and sperm of ancient honored warriors. Still, such things meant nothing to her. Cassy was her brother, plain and simple. And the urge to protect him erupted inside her like a thunderstorm when she saw he needed help.

“Wipe your tears,” Father ordered. He turned to Skye, looking down. “Answer for him, then, since you’re so obviously willing.”

Skye drew in a sharp breath. “Specters are solitary but will call to each other if they sense danger. It’s an instinctual act, one that can be exploited by forcing multiple enemies into tight spaces. They can’t phase through solid surfaces without expending energy, and they’ll draw energy from each other if they’re too close. Shoot the strongest one first, maim it. If it tries to drain energy from the others, pick off the weakest ones.”

Father turned to Cassy. “You hear that, boy? Look up.”

Cassy looked up, quickly wiping another tear away.

Father reached out, gently touching Cassy’s chin. Father’s stern expression softened just a bit. The wrinkles on his forehead thinned out. Skye felt a twinge of jealousy. That gentle forgiveness was reserved for Cassy.

“You must know this, boy. The survival of the human race depends on us.”

“I know it,” Cassy said, his voice high and whiny. “I just couldn’t remember it all.”

“Someday, you will be called upon,” Father said. He turned, staring through the curved windshield of the mag-train. The vehicle had begun to slow. Skye watched the conductor’s left hand as he drew his finger slowly along a red switch on the display panel. Inside the rails on either side of the train, the electromagnetic suspension system adjusted flawlessly to the change in speed. Underneath the train, secondary magnets kept it floating. No friction. No wheels traveling along rails. One of Clan Persia’s technological feats and a great source of pride.

“Will we see them?” Cassy asked. “Do I have to shoot them?”

Father didn’t answer.

“I’ll protect you,” Skye said. She aimed her finger like a gun. “They’ll be farther away than a Disc Toss goal.”

At that, Cassy’s eyes lit up just a bit. He loved Disc Toss — it was a game hesitantly tolerated by Clan Sparta, and only because the elders recognized it to be good fitness training. Skye enjoyed watching Cassy play. In the game he shed his shy, nervous demeanor. He was nimble and quick, but never threw the plate-sized discs for goals. Instead, he maneuvered his way to the opponent’s goal and then passed the disc to a teammate. Skye often watched him with a touch of pride. He was going to grow up to be fast.

Now if only he could be a little more aggressive.

Then Cassy will be Father’s favorite, without a doubt. “Skye who?” he might say when someone points out that he has a daughter, too. Maybe I’ll even have to remind him from time to time.

She shook the thought. That was neither here nor there.

“I don’t wanna shoot them,” Cassy whined.

Father spun. “Want.”

“Fine. I don’t want to shoot them.”

For a moment, Skye thought Father might close the distance again and deliver another slap. But instead, Father simply drew in a deep breath. “You’ll do whatever you must to complete your Proving. The Proving isn’t a game. The Proving is your first step to adulthood. You will be tied to the other members of your Coterie for the rest of your life. You will depend on each other. And you will protect the people of Neo Berlin when called upon.” He made a fist in front of Cassy’s face, causing the boy to flinch. “Glory.”

Cassy looked down. His feet didn’t quite touch so they hung over the floor, swinging slowly. He looked funny, wearing his little gray Ecosuit. The spidersilk fabric was incredibly strong, and just durable enough that it wasn’t a discomfort. The shoulder plates, shin guards and wrist guards were all made of a ceramic fiber, strong enough to temporarily stop a weakened Specter but mostly only good for protecting against more physical threats.

Which, for an awkward thirteen-year-old, mostly meant bumping into things. Kids were so clumsy. Skye couldn’t remember ever being as clumsy as Cassy. He seemed to always have bruises and cuts.

She looked down at her suit — at least it fit well. Her boots were a little snug, but not so much that they were uncomfortable. And the armor was “breathing” like it should, keeping her from overheating. She’d had one of the Spartans in the armory remove the three emergency rations on her belt and replace them with an extra fuel cell. The cell could be used to power her VR rifle or her Xenoshield system, depending on what she needed more at any given time. The short-wave shield wasn’t on yet — if it were, she would feel a very gentle force pushing her butt away from the seat, so subtle that it would be completely forgotten a few moments after it was turned on. When it was on, it would form a thin, invisible protection against a Specter attack.

They’d all heard stories of shields failing. Sebecus Specters pulling themselves from the ground, glowing a sickening reddish orange, their lizard-like eyes singling out an unfortunate victim. Coteries who had completed their Proving had a hard time explaining what it was like, coming up against the creatures. The veteran Spartans always said the same thing: “Imagine ghosts. Long-dead ghosts of long-dead creatures that no longer exist. They glow like they’re on fire. You can see through them. They move like they’re swimming underwater. They moan.”

And then they touch you. They move through you. And then you die.

“Listen to your Parliamentarian,” Father ordered. “His name is Gabriel Martinez. He will assume leadership. If he’s a good leader, he will seek consensus. If he’s a poor leader, he will try to give orders.”

“Who are the other kids?” Cassy asked.

Father ignored him. He was looking at Skye now, piercing her with his dark brown eyes. He rarely looked into her eyes for so long — her left eye crossed just a bit from time to time, and though it didn’t affect her vision, it made Father uncomfortable. A visual sign of weakness that Skye was expected to overcome. “Trust the other clan members only as much as you need to. You. You, Skye. You will be their protector. They will depend on your martial skills. They’ve wasted generations skulking in front of their computers and lab equipment while the Specter threat grows. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” Skye said. She felt a touch of pride in the way he was talking to her — like an adult.

Father turned to Cassy. “When I was eighteen, my Coterie underwent our final Proving in the southern swamps of Wei-Gan. Satellite data had pinpointed a small nest of Specters that were getting too close to the rice farms. There was worry that they might damage the farming machines, and so it was our job to wipe them out. When we arrived, we found ourselves surrounded by more than a dozen Specters. Someone from Clan Persia had made a mistake with the satellite data. Or perhaps not.”

“What do you mean?” Cassy asked, sitting straighter. He’d never heard this story, but Skye had. She’d heard it five years ago when she’d been the little one, the Young Adult, going through her first Proving.

“Clan Persia failed in their duties. They monitor the satellites. They provide tactical data. And they nearly killed us.”

“But Father was too strong,” Skye told Cassy, smiling. She nudged him with her elbow. “He had a few tricks up his sleeve.”

“The clans maintain an alliance because it’s the only way to survive against the Specters,” Father said grimly. “Others will speak of unity and togetherness and all manner of ridiculous notions of brotherhood, but you must always remember that Clan Sparta is the strongest. We are the warriors. We are the ones whose weapons protect the last of the human race. Trust your Coterie no farther than you can spit.”

Don’t trust anyone. Don’t trust the clans, and don’t trust the citizens. Don’t trust Parliament. Don’t trust your neighbors. Don’t trust your shields. When Father spoke, he didn’t make eye contact with Skye. But she understood he was talking mainly to her. It would be her job to keep her brother safe. Some thought the Proving was a dangerous waste of time but Clan Sparta relished the opportunity to take its children beyond the safety of the shield so they could see what Earth was really like.

What it had become since the Specters fell from the sky.

The train slowed further. They were close now, moving underneath the massive skyscrapers in the heart of the city. Skye leaned back and closed her eyes. She thought back to five years ago, when she and four other Young Adults had followed four New Adults north, beyond the safety of the Shield and into wilderness where Specters lurked. They’d seen only one, just one, but it had been enough to send a jolt of energy through Skye’s entire body. Energy she’d never been able to release, as if a spring had coiled tightly somewhere within her.

They had been deep inside an old forest full of new growth and the charred remains of tall, much older trees that had burned in a fire years prior. The black trees stood like skeletal fingers, looming. It was a frightening place, and the sun seemed to set faster than usual so that they were still half a mile from their vehicle when darkness fell. The New Adults had made a mistake. They were confused and arguing with one another. The boy from Clan Sparta and the girl from Clan Athens shoved each other at one point and then one of the Young Adults started crying.

18-year-olds arguing. 13-year-olds crying. And Skye, ever alert, clutching her VR pistol just as she’d been trained. Then she saw it: a lizard-like creature with a long crocodile snout and narrow eyes. A tail. Diamond-like spines protruding from its back.

Its ghostly body lifted out of the ground.

Skye fired her pistol. Again and again and again.

“They hide underground,” Father told Cassy. “They can move through solid objects, but not extensively — it requires too much energy. You’ll see their color change, from dark orange to yellow, as their energy is expended. When they emerge, shoot them. Don’t hesitate. Don’t be afraid. They can be killed, like all things.”

Father turned back to the windshield. Cassy brought up his hand to bite his knuckles again but Skye caught him, grabbing his hand and pulling it down. She met his eyes and shook her head. He scrunched his face, frustrated.

Scared.

His face wasn’t clean. Skye leaned in, examining his skin. There were still faint black marks on his cheeks, and cut-like lines under his chin. The marks were from last night’s Carnivale, a silly tradition of the Free Citizens that merged with the clans’ own festivals dedicated to ritual customs. For Clan Sparta, that meant a night of face painting. Black lines were drawn on faces to signify the passing of knowledge. Lines were made sharp with the use of needle-like ink dispensers. Some Spartans simply tattooed them on but most used a washable ink, as the custom had changed over time and facial markings of any kind — with the exception of scars — were frowned upon as “flamboyant.”

The ritual was a rare opportunity to celebrate as a clan and gave parents an excuse to publicly dote on their children. For Skye and Cassy, that had meant seeing Father and Mother smiling and laughing as artists — free citizens, mostly — went around and decorated the children’s faces and arms with creative markings in various colors. For the adults, those markings became much more codified: black lines only, except on the darkest skin when white lines were permitted. Each line signified a piece of ancestral history. Knowledge passed on. Each dot on the cheek was a Spartan in one’s own bloodline. A Spartan who had earned glory.

And while Cassy had been content to run around with his friends under the soft blue light of fireworks exploding in the night sky, his sister had spent the entire evening sitting on a stool, back aching, pride burning, as an artist ran a hundred little lines across her bare arm. Father and Mother stood beside the artist, watching with stern faces.

And with each new line, Father told a fresh story about their family lineage.

Now Skye touched her own face, second-guessing her own cleaning abilities. Had she washed away every line? It would be embarrassing to show up at her Proving with a dirty face, a sign of weakness. Cassy seemed to recognize the fear in her eyes and gave a little shake of his head, which satisfied Skye.

“Ah, it looks like we’re the first to arrive,” Father said proudly. The train slowed to a stop. Through the side windows between two black weapons lockers, Skye could see a small, empty station. This was a private stop, directly underneath Parliament. Only authorized mag-trains stopped here.

“Father,” Cassy whispered, pointing.

Skye craned her head to look out the windshield. A single young man was standing beside a white support pillar. On the pillar was an ad screen offering the newest deals on EcoMeat Light, promising fewer calories and twenty percent less sodium than the regular EcoMeat. The bright colors of the ad bounced off the young man’s face. He had narrow eyes and a sharp jaw and a skinny neck. He was wearing an Ecosuit but it looked too big. A white half-cape hung from his right shoulder. His head was shaved.

“Who is that?” Cassy asked.

“He is your Historian,” Father said in a low voice. “Trust the Historians least of all.”

Chapter 2: Benjamin Redcloud

Clan Athens

The corridor was empty. S-LED bulbs hung from the ceiling, protected by whorled brown shades reminiscent of seashells. Each one was unique, thin enough that the light from the bulbs glowed through.

Artist’s guild, Ben assumed. All of Neo Berlin’s underground corridors had their own design. They ran beneath the streets, each with their own conveyor belt to assist in faster travel. Some, in the poorer sections of the city, were simpler. Underground shops advertised products in their windows with smartglass technology that scanned passersby and estimated their consuming habits. In the more affluent sections of the city, the lights hanging from the ceiling might feature some kind of crystal, and instead of underground shops there would be art lining the walls. Or maybe just a simple paint scheme: dark gray, with a dark brown wooden trim and a few mirrors.

Ben preferred the tunnels under the Microscopy building on his school campus. Screens hung from the walls, cycling through images taken by electron microscopes. An eyelash. A butterfly’s wing magnified so that the individual scales with their iridescent colors could be seen. A bee’s eye. A drop of salt water, teeming with a dizzying array of microorganisms. On his way to classes, he tried to avoid as many of the commercial districts as possible. They were too bright and too loud.

Tahlia reached up and grabbed his hand. “Look at those, Ben.”

He followed the line from his sister’s little finger to the blue walls on their right, where tall picture screens hung between arcing steel support beams. The screens were cycling through images of Earth’s last remaining cities. Now here was something even better than microscopy: buildings. Bundles of towering skyscrapers distinguishable by their style: Deco-Glass towers were lined with solar panels between tall panes of glass. Brutalfire towers could always be spotted because of the lights snaking up their exteriors. Lifecycle-style buildings always found a way to incorporate plants — plants running up the buildings, plants on patios, even plants on rooftops. “We’re going too fast to get a good look,” he said.

Tahlia turned to their mom, who was standing behind them on the conveyor. “Can we just walk the rest of the way? I want to see all the pictures.”

“All right,” Mom said. “We’ll get off at the next stop.”

“But we’re going to be late,” Dad said. He stood beside their mom, a full head taller, a full decade older and grayer. Not quite totally gray, not yet. Just a few spots here and there, places where the topical treatment wasn’t doing its job. Ben could fix that. He knew it was a problem with the chemical compound Dad rubbed into his scalp every week. Dad would want his gray hair fixed because he liked to look young. Why not? The technology existed, and simple topical treatments weren’t illegal.

Not yet.

Mom, on the other hand, was the perfect picture of natural, ageless beauty. For a mom, Ben supposed. She was slender, had long brown hair and not a single wrinkle blemished her face. Her body responded well to approved gene therapy, and it might do so for another thirty years or more, depending. Depending on a lot of things. The body is a machine. A self-contained wonder whose little parts work together to make the whole. Don’t want wrinkles? Don’t worry . . . there’s a procedure for that. Don’t want gray hair? Try this topical treatment. Need a new lung? Just let Clan Athens grow you a new one using your very own stem cells.

But when it came to enhancement . . . well, then Parliament had a problem with it. Nanobots, genetic therapy to “turn off” or “turn on” certain genes that gave certain people advantages . . . those were all illegal unless they were of a clear health benefit and no alternative therapies existed. There were so many laws against genetic enhancement that Ben couldn’t understand how Clan Athens navigated them. Turning on the “Einstein Gene” to increase brain capacity? Illegal. Turning on the “Super Gene” to add muscle mass? Illegal.

But using optogenetics to let scientists create new neural pathways in the brain? That was legal, although only when it was used to help stroke victims. People like Ben’s dad, who hundreds of years ago would have spent the rest of his life suffering the debilitating effects of a stroke. But instead, Dad completely recovered. It had taken therapy, both physical and genetic. It had been a trying year, one that could have been simplified with a simple nanobot repair algorithm.

Why, exactly, should nanobots be illegal if they could make human beings better?

Ben took a deep, shaky breath. “I think we should walk, too. I’d like to find a restroom before we get to the station.”

“You’ve been outvoted, love,” said Mom, smiling wryly at Dad. He frowned, leaned down and kissed her on the head.

“Gross,” said Tahlia. “Don’t embarrass us in public, please.”

That just encouraged them to snuggle more, floating past picture screens whose built-in cameras identified the romantic gesture and brought up pictures of beautiful sunsets and exotic forests. At the bottom of each screen was a message:

THIS ROMANTIC VIEW BROUGHT TO YOU BY KABULIN ENTERTAINMENT.

Ben felt his stomach lurch, although not for the same reason as his sister’s.

“Don’t use gross,” their mom said sternly. “Not while you’re out on your Proving. The Historian records everything, and language purity is important to our clan elders.”

“That, and not getting killed,” Ben added. He immediately felt awkward. Bad joke, he thought. Bad, bad joke.

His parents were instantly transformed, their good humor gone.

“Don’t joke about death,” Mom said. “Please, sweetie.”

Dad put an arm around her shoulder. “Everything will be fine. When my Coterie went through our Proving, we didn’t see a single Specter. We went out, repaired some farming machines, then came back. Kudos all around! I think we even threw a party. Fernando didn’t join us, though — he’s my Spartan teammate, so you know . . . all seriousness, no fun.”

“They are who they are,” Mom noted. They stepped off the conveyer. About ten feet ahead was another pair of conveyors. The one on the left was moving in the opposite direction. They walked between the conveyors, taking their time. Ben tried to nudge them to walk faster, setting the pace. He needed a bathroom. He could feel sweat gathering at his forehead; sharp pains had begun stabbing him in the stomach.

It could just be nerves. Or it could be something worse. His mind ran through a dozen different scenarios, but the only one that made sense was some kind of side effect of the injection.

Not good. Not good at all.

“What city is that?” Tahlia asked, pointing to a large cityscape hanging on the wall to their left. The image moved in time-lapse. As they walked past it, the sun rose behind the tall shimmering glass skyscrapers, painting the water along the shoreline a dark orange. The sun disappeared out of frame, and then very slowly the light faded. The lights in the skyscrapers became more visible.

Stars appeared in the dark sky.

They all stopped, admiring the image.

“Stars are so beautiful,” Tahlia said. She reached over her shoulder. “Mom? I have an itch.”

“That was Neo Tokyo,” Mom said, reaching down and running her fingers hard across Tahlia’s back. Mom’s nails dug into the spidersilk fabric of the Ecosuit. “That was before the Specters arrived. It’s gone now.”

“Oh, it’s still there,” Dad said. “Just not like this. Buildings have crumbled. Windows have shattered. Nature reclaimed it.”

“Nature reclaims everything with time,” Mom said. As they walked past the image, day replaced night again. A new day. A different day. Clouds drifted across the sky, sail boats darted around on the water. People congregated near the shoreline then just as quickly disappeared as another night fell. Lights flicked on in the millions of windows; most soon went out as people went to sleep. The stars remained, watchful.

All those people in the video . . . all dead now. Long gone. Wiped out by hordes of Specters fallen from the sky so, so long ago.

The scene changed, revealing an old crumbled building with cracked concrete and a crown-shaped top lacking a roof. “Oh, neat!” Tahlia said. “Can you imagine how many species of rat probably live there?”

“Ugh. Unfortunately, I can.” Ben gave her back a little push. “Let’s not dwell on it.”

“Probably a few swamp rats . . . maybe a desmomys yaldeni or two . . . definitely some Millard’s rats. Maned rats, too. Maned rats sit on their haunches and eat their food with their paws and it’s pretty cute.”

“Can we . . . just keep walking,” Ben said. “Dad’s right — uh, we’re going to be late.”

They kept walking, passing another cityscape vidscreen. This one was smaller, composed of four picture screens next to one another, each one showing a different section of Neo Berlin. The city was shaped like an X, with the tallest buildings lining the two main highways. There were four large parks — one on the northwest end, one on the southwest end, one on the northeast end, and one on the northeast end. The park in the picture was the northwestern park, Sventon Park. Ben could tell from the stout Athenian fruit trees that lined the cobblestone paths. The trees had been genetically modified by Clan Athens to produce nutrient-rich apples with protein-loaded digestible seeds. Where natural apple seeds had no nutritional value — and even contained a little cyanide — Clan Athens had modified the fruit’s genes to maximize its value.

Natural! What a garbage word, Ben thought. The new apples were better in every way, including taste.

In the picture of Sventon Park, people strolled leisurely along the stone paths. Kids ran on the fresh-cut grass. A few had brightly-colored kites that floated in the air. Kites were a strange relic from the past. But some people enjoyed them. Some people took comfort in simple things.

Ben saw the appeal. He wiped sweat from his forehead, taking a deep breath. Kites probably had a calming effect. Flying them released dopamine, which made people feel good. The pictures of the kites weren’t doing much for him, though.

As they passed the four vidscreens, the pictures paused, advertising Fa-Chicken, which featured a new barbeque flavor and could be purchased at any printing terminal for just two credits.

The next vidscreen featured another city at night. In the corner was the time: 20:43. It was a live feed of a city on the other side of the world. And on the edge of the horizon was the Ring, glowing red, threatening at any moment to close in on Earth. Ben stopped, staring at it and feeling a tightness in his chest.

The Spectral Ring. Silently orbiting Earth. Billions and billions of chunks of frozen ice. Spectral Energy swirling between the ice.

“It’s thousands and thousands of kilometers away,” Dad said, reading his mind. He put a hand on Ben’s shoulder.

“Two hundred thousand,” Ben said. “But not far enough.”

“Are we going to see any Specters during our Proving?” Tahlia asked.

“You’ll be fine,” Dad told Tahlia. “Just trust your big brother.”

“He’s not really my brother,” Tahlia said. The way she said it made her sound like she’d just learned the information. But she’d known about it for a year or so now, ever since her first genetics class. Ben could still remember that class. It was where the students learned their parents weren’t their parents. Clan Athens, like Clans Sparta and Persia, used in-vitro fertilization of their best and brightest to maximize efficiency. Spartan warriors and Persian computer geniuses and Athenian innovators from decades or centuries ago. If you contributed enough to society, your clan would save your eggs or sperm and your DNA would live on.

It was the way of things, the teacher had explained. Then the teacher had launched into a rant about Parliament and the ridiculous laws against thorough genetic modifications. If people could do more . . . if parents had more choice over gene therapies to enhance their child’s brain, muscles, eyes . . . then maybe there would be more natural births.

If nanobots weren’t outlawed . . .

“He’s your brother,” Mom told Tahlia. “We’re a family, and we all love each other.”

“No, we had different parents. Isn’t that right? Right? We’re not related by blood.”

“You grew up together,” Dad said. “We raised you. You’re my daughter, and Ben’s your brother.”

“But we were conceived in a tube. That’s how it happens, right? You pick the sperm and the egg from a list of important people and then the fertilized egg is implanted in Mom’s uterus . . .”

“So what?” Ben asked, annoyed. She was talking like it didn’t matter. Like it was no big deal. So matter-of-fact. Didn’t it bother her? It bothered him. The whole gene bank bothered him. The idea that the three clans — Athens, Sparta and Persia — used the sperm and eggs of people long dead . . . well, it freaked him out just a bit.

It was archaic. Without so many laws, Ben’s parents could have conceived their own children and simply used gene therapy to make each child the best he or she could be. Better.

But then, of course, Benjamin Redcloud wouldn’t have existed.

“It’s just neat,” Tahlia said proudly. “Ben, why are you walking so fast? Ben! Ben!”

She held his name on her tongue even as he reached the little side hallway that led to a pair of restrooms. He pushed open the men’s room door and shut it, locking it with a wave of his hand. He leaned over the toilet, staring into the little pool of water, waiting. His gut was unsure. It didn’t know whether it wanted to expel something or maybe just torture him for a while longer.

“It’s a side-effect,” he croaked, dropping his pleather medical satchel on the ground. “A common side-effect. That’s all.”

He looked in the mirror. His face was pale. The black stubble on his chin looked like someone had erased a smudge of graphite, leaving little flecks of black rubber behind. Tahlia’s words echoed in his mind. She didn’t look like him — that was the problem. They didn’t look alike. She had dark skin and curly, thick hair and big, dark green eyes and her front teeth stuck out just a little.

He was already going bald just a little bit at the corners of his forehead and so he kept his hair short, nearly buzzed. His skin burned in the summer. He had a soft build and big feet that everyone commented on once they noticed. When she’d been younger, Tahlia used to pinch his bare toes for fun, just to hear him scream. Then they would laugh together.

They weren’t related. He wished they were. He couldn’t explain why — he just wished they were. And he wished his parents were his real parents, too. He wished he had his dad’s strong jawline and his mom’s sharp wit that always made her the lion of social encounters.

But still. He’d picked up some of their nurturing qualities. Their calm demeanor. Their strange, sharp inflection of hard “k” sounds, like in “brake.” His dad’s constant whistling of holo-movie showtunes. His mom’s steady hands when handling the family’s collection of porcelain cups.

He waved his hand in front of the faucet. A stream of water flowed out of the spigot. He filled his cupped hand and splashed the cold water on his face. It felt good.

“You’re panicking. It’s just a side-effect.”

But the side effects should have shown and worn off already. That’s what she’d said, the woman who’d gone through the same medical procedure. The woman who promised him the one thing he really wanted: invulnerability. She’d asked him if he wanted to cheat death. He said yes.

Then she’d injected the illegal nanobots into his bloodstream.

He turned just in time, throwing up in the toilet. Black bile. Oh, to have time to take a sample to the lab. Break it down. Double-check its contents. What was wrong? Why did anything have to be wrong?

Maybe it was just nerves.

He remembered his first Proving. Thirteen years old, lost in a creepy forest, staying close to the Spartan girl named Skye because she had a gun and he didn’t. The eighteen-year-olds were supposed to protect the young ones. The eighteen-year-olds were called the “New Adults.” As if. As if an arbitrary number suddenly made someone become an adult. As if nature itself wasn’t in constant flux, always changing. No other animals had such illogical distinctions. They became adults simply by surviving.

And what had the “New Adults” done? They’d fought. Argued. Gotten hopelessly lost. Not only that, they were walking so fast. Ben remembered reaching out and grabbing the hand of Cleo, the girl from Clan Persia. He’d squeezed her hand, trying to get her to shut up. She was talking so fast about all sorts of nonsense and she didn’t seem to realize just how dangerous it was out there. He’d been so scared. The sun dipped behind the trees, little beams of orange light slipping between the trunks.

And then it was dark. Cleo stopped talking. Ahead, the “New Adults” were still arguing about which direction to go. They were trying to use their smartglasses to pinpoint the vehicle, but something was wrong. The satellite above . . .

It had been damaged by an ice collision inside the Ring, which had caused the Spectral Energy to ignite like a lightning storm. They’d been all alone. And then a terrifying Sebecus Specter had risen from the ground, like a ghost summoned by a necromancer. It opened its crocodile-like mouth and let out a low, teeth-rattling moan. Ben hid behind a tree, watching as Skye stepped forward and aimed her pistol. The camera on Ben’s glasses amplified what little light remained, and he could see her hands shaking just a little bit. The Specter’s claws dug at the ground. Ben remembered feeling his body go numb as adrenaline coursed through his veins. His body was preparing him for a painless death. The Specter . . . it had looked like the ghost of some kind of long-dead dinosaur, twice the size of a man yet distinctly humanoid. It could sense him. It wanted to kill him.

Skye fired her pistol. Ben squeezed his eyes shut. Skye fired again and again and again.

When he opened his eyes, the Specter was gone. A few flecks of bright yellow ash fluttered to the ground, dropping between blades of grass like the spent embers of a finished fire.

Skye had saved them.

Ben threw up again, then cupped his hands under the faucet and rinsed the water around his mouth. He spit, then drank a bit. “Everything’s fine,” he whispered to his reflection. “It’ll pass.”

The nanobots inside him seemed to disagree. His stomach lurched again. What if something was really wrong? What if he needed medical help? He would have to confess or the doctors wouldn’t be able to remove them. The nanobots were like little robotic surgeons, so small that they could only be programmed to do a few things. They traveled through the bloodstream, hitching rides with red blood cells, stopping to help wherever needed. Little cheerleaders, encouraging white blood cells to do their thing, discouraging cancer cells from growing, ensuring a healthy microbiome in the gut, “nudging” his body’s natural processes. With more research and encouragement, nanobot technology could do even more.

If he had to go to a hospital . . . if they had to be removed . . . he would be arrested.

Ben took a deep breath. “Everything’s OK,” he whispered again. His stomach was calming down. He checked his pulse: a little fast, but no longer racing. The color was returning to his face — was it the nanobots? Were they reassuring his body?

“They shouldn’t even be illegal,” he said quietly.

There was no going back now. He’d made his decision. He’d justified it by telling himself that lots of members of Clan Athens did it, even though it was illegal. It was foolish, allowing Parliament to dictate the limits of medical science. The nanobots could usher in a whole new era of technology. They could be a hundred times better, if they could just be studied! The possibilities were endless . . . and it would be foolish to not use them.

He picked up his satchel and opened the door. Mom and Dad and Tahlia were waiting at the end of the hall. Tahlia was wearing a cute frown, arms crossed. She looked so grown up in her gray Ecosuit. The shoulder plates and the wrist guards were lined with a sharp blue stripe, just like on Ben’s. He felt a bit nervous, but something else was replacing it. A soothing serenity. Maybe the nanobots were in his brain, helping his hypothalamus regulate his body’s heart rate and increase the dopamine level.

“You said you didn’t want to be late and then you went and took a swim in the toilet,” Tahlia said.

Ben laughed and reached down, grabbing her soft curly hair. He gave it a gentle tug. “I have the jitters. You’ll know what it’s like when you turn eighteen.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Dad said. He put an arm around Ben. “Just make sure you follow your training. Let the Spartans shoot their fancy guns if anything goes wrong.”

“I know.” He sighed. “It’s just a little overwhelming. I studied everything about the Specters and read through the documents just like you said but I still feel like all of this is coming so fast. There’s a lot of information to analyze.”

“Everything will slow down once you get out of the city,” Dad said. “Then all you need to worry about is finishing your mission. The rest will come naturally.” He leaned in close. “Honestly, the elders who plan these Provings always err on the side of caution.”

“Are you sure you have everything in your medkit?” Mom asked.

Ben grabbed the satchel that was bumping against his thigh. “I double-checked everything, then double-double-checked.”

“What about medigel?” she asked. “It’s good for pimples, too. You’ve got a couple on your forehead.”

He brushed away her hand. “Mom. There’s not going to be anyone I need to impress during this thing.”

The next two wall vid-screens were shimmering, blinking in and out as if there was a power surge somewhere inside the building. As they passed the screens, Ben couldn’t help but notice that his parents had moved closer to him and Tahlia. Protective, the way prey animals move in a herd.

“Where did the Specters come from?” Tahlia asked.

“Far away,” Ben answered. He took an unsure breath. His stomach had calmed. He felt normal again. Anxiety level low, at least for the time being. Not gone completely, but low enough.

“I know that,” Tahlia said. “I was asking a research question, Ben.”

“What does it matter?”

“We should find their home planet,” Tahlia said. “You know, like in that holo-movie about the monsters that look like giant humanoid spiders? Dad? Remember that?”

“I don’t remember that,” Mom murmured, leering at Dad.

“It wasn’t bad,” Ben assured her with a grin. “With all the holographic effects, you hardly noticed the blood at all. And it was pretty fake, too. You could tell those weren’t human guts.”

“How about we not talk about that movie at all?” Dad asked nervously.

“No,” Tahlia said, “Dad, you’re not listening to me! We could set a proton bomb on the Specter homeworld, just like in that movie. Or we could set up a particle accelerator in space and fire a proton beam at the Ring. Boom! Gone.”

“Are you learning this in school?” Mom asked. “Are they seriously teaching string theory to thirteen-year-olds?”

“We’d see the stars again,” Tahlia said. “Without the Ring circling the planet, we’d have starry nights every night. And kids would never have nightmares about ghosts again.”

“The Specters aren’t going to bother you,” Dad said. “All you’re going to do is take a quick trip out beyond the Shield and then you’ll come back. And then we’ll throw a little celebration.”

They walked past two more images of cities. In both, the red Ring loomed in the sky, orbiting Earth. It might have been beautiful, if not for the danger it contained. Specters. Millions of them. Billions.

Between two of the images was a food shop that smelled like cooked meat and fried potatoes. Parliamentarians stood in three lines, taking turns punching their orders into the tall gray Self-Serve machines, swiping their payment card, and then sliding open the deposit hatch where their tray of steaming hot food was waiting. The parliamentarians wore casual suits and dresses, nothing too fancy. Modesty was the fashion for elected representatives of the people.

And apparently Diamond Desmond’s Self-Serve was the place to eat. Fabricated chicken meat grown in labs, along with a healthy side of nutrient-rich corn sprinkled with pepper. Ben squinted as he passed, spotting a few cups of beer-battered crickets as well — a delicacy in his own home and one he didn’t enjoy. Those were Tahlia’s favorite dish, not his.

They walked to the end of the corridor, to the open, arcing entrance leading into Karman Park. The sight of it made Ben feel a little better. He put a hand on his sister’s shoulder as they passed underneath the sleek, silver arch. Underground parks were a thing Ben and Tahlia could both enjoy: Tahlia loved the ecology and Ben loved the architecture. And while Karman Park did have the distinction of being the oldest underground park in Neo Berlin, that didn’t diminish its grandeur.

Birds whistled from somewhere inside the canopy of a weeping willow tree, standing tall between two narrow support pillars lined with creeping yellowish vines. At the foot of the tree was a wide green space of carefully manicured grass — genetically modified, of course — with just enough room for two picnic tables. One of the picnic tables was occupied by a family, the other by a park employee eating a Fa-Chicken sandwich. The knees of his gray uniform were stained green and brown from the grass and dirt.

They walked through a small grove of Athenian fruit trees. Tahlia reached up and grabbed an apple, plucking it. Ben looked above the trees, toward the ceiling where a carefully constructed array of silver hexagonal panels were reflecting sunlight onto the reflective ceiling. It was an amazing, ages-old invention. Panels on the surface captured the sunlight and sent it through fiber optic cables to the reflecting panels. The light was strong enough for trees. For flowers and grass. Strong enough even to cast shadows on the seven wooden walkways that ran in figure-eights around the green spaces — .

Beyond the park was access to the restricted mag-rail line, an old line that Ben had once researched and found to have a fundamental design flaw: the line’s southern route bumped up against the sewage system, which meant there was no room to add a second line. After the Specters invaded and forced everyone to live inside the safety of the city, the concept of “expansion” no longer existed. An entirely new mag-rail line needed to be designed, this one directly under the old one.

Two Spartans stood sentry beside the door. Dad and Mom waved their ID badges for the soldiers, who stepped aside without a change in their stern facial expressions. A pair of black doors whooshed open, leading them through a clean, white corridor.

“Specters aren’t really ghosts,” Dad said to Ben.

“I know, Dad.”

“They’re simply negatively charged energy.”

Ben laughed. “And we kill them with positive thoughts and feelings.”

Dad smiled. “Your Coterie will depend on you out there. You have to know how the Specters function.”

“We’d know more if we were allowed to study them in-depth. We don’t even know why they hide underground at night! We just guess and observe from a distance.”

“Rules are rules. Parliament makes them and we follow them.”

“But we don’t know anything, not really,” Ben said. Ahead, he could see the hall opening up into a larger room with thin pillars. The station. Already, there were people waiting on the platform. Ben hated empty halls with bare walls — it just seemed like such a waste of space. “I mean, we know they consist of some kind of combination of electrons and an unknown molecule we call ectoplasm that somehow creates this ghost-like creature, right?”

“Right.”

“And we know they can be destroyed with a high-powered proton charge.”

“Right.”

“And that’s it. That’s all we know. After all these years.”

Dad gently squeezed his neck, rubbing his longissimus muscle with his thumb. “Just make sure you take care of your sister. We’ll talk when you get back.”

“If I do.” Ben immediately regretted saying it. He expected Dad’s hand to fall away but instead Dad squeezed harder, applying a comfortable pressure.

“Everything is going to be fine. And when you get back, it’s time to delve into some high-concept theories. Your brain is going to be fried by lunchtime every day.”

Ben looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re going to intern in the Holocene lab.”

“Really? Are you kidding? No, you can’t be kidding. You don’t kid about lab things. You’re serious.”

Dad nodded. “Everything is squared away with the bosses. You’re in the lab as soon as you get back. You’ll get some boring assignments to start, but maybe we can sneak you into a few genetic studies. I’ve got a pet smilodon who loves meeting new people.”

“Dad . . . um, that’s . . .” His stomach lurched. He swallowed his excitement. “I would be honored. It’s a great honor. It’s really, really neat.”

Dad just laughed and patted him on the back.

They stopped at the entrance to Station 6-A. It was empty, save for a young man with a shaved head and three Spartans. A boy and an older man stood next to each other, both eyeing an ad for a holo-movie playing on one of the platform pillars. The Star War. An action-thriller about a love-struck couple who shoot their way through hundreds of Specters in search of their missing baby. Not Ben’s favorite genre.

Then he saw her. And for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, Ben’s stomach felt like it was doing somersaults in his abdominal cavity. Only this time the source of the disturbance was somewhat different.

Skye. All grown up. Her curly red hair had gotten darker, and so had the freckles that dotted her sharp nose. Her skin was still pale, just a little sunburnt. She stood tall, hands on hips, VR rifle slung over her shoulder. She licked her full lips, looking around. Taking in her surroundings, just like Spartans always did anywhere they went. Her eyes passed over Ben, registering nothing as they met his gaze briefly before quickly going back to the empty mag-rail track and the wide, inclined corridor on the other side of the station that led up to the first floor of the Parliament building.

Ben couldn’t look away. Skye was beautiful.

Chapter 3: Gabriel Martinez

Parliament

The Free Chamber was bustling, as always. It came as no surprise — these were trying times, and there was much to discuss. The Ark was complete. It had been completed years ago and now Clan Athens scientists had calculated that based on their most recent laser-comm readings of New Earth, the planet was finally terraformed to the point that it could sustain human life.

It was time to go.

But who would go? Now that was an interesting question. The answer, it turned out, wasn’t cut and dried.

And so here they were. Thirty citizens freely elected from Neo Berlin’s thirty districts standing in the crowded amphitheater, arguing heatedly with more than eight hundred other representatives from Earth’s eighty remaining cities protected by the Phenocyte shields. But since traveling outside the shield was nearly impossible by night, and since even the most efficient mag-rail transport lines could only take so many passengers from city to city during the day, these arguments were taking place in cyberspace.

The other representatives were all holograms.

Good holograms, though. In fact, if it wasn’t for a momentary static blip in the hologram program, Gabriel’s eyes would have been perfectly deceived. The amphitheater was built in the style of a traditional forum: circular, with seats in ascending rows. At the center there was enough room for a handful of people, though protocol dictated that when one person stood there, he or she had the room and respect was to be observed no matter where your hologram was broadcasting from. The holograms themselves were powered by holo-lamps built into the floor, which meant the floor was layered with a graphenite grate composed of little pinholes.

Which meant coffee was forbidden in the amphitheater proper.

Which meant Gabriel, nursing his cup of half-decaf coffee, had to sit in the audience chamber that circled the amphitheater. It suited him fine: the seats were more comfortable here, and from his vantage point he could see all the way to the stage below.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Armando said. He sat beside Gabriel, giving him a peck on the cheek. “How are you?”

“Peachy,” Gabriel murmured. He sipped his coffee. It was delicious — somewhere on the planet, there was always some small mechanized coffee farm finding a new way to roast traditional beans. Or tweak the soil. Or fine-tune the genes of the coffea arabica shrub. Just this morning, Gabriel had seen an ad for this particular brand in the elevator — “Just message C4543 at the nearest coffee machine and we’ll zap the genetic blueprints in three seconds flat!”

Delicious. If you liked spending credits on such things.

“Splendid getup. Is this the new style then?” Armando asked, running a finger across the shoulder plate of Gabriel’s Ecosuit.

“I hope not,” Gabriel answered. “My Proving is today. But you know that.”

“Yes. Everyone on your social net knows.” Gabriel turned in time to catch Armando in the process of rolling his eyes. Armando was attractive, with skin that was a shade browner than Gabriel’s and dark hair that was just a little longer, a little unrulier. Armando also had the dubious distinction of being nicknamed Eyebrows — on account of the black caterpillars on his brow — ever since primary school. But it didn’t diminish the young man’s looks. Armando was undeniably handsome.

“Did you study your Proving manual?”

Gabriel nodded. “Two centuries ago, we began tracking a massive comet that would buzz right past Earth. When the comet arrived one hundred and thirty-three years ago, it got caught in our orbit, forming a ring around the planet. Inside the Ring were Specters. Specters descended to Earth and wreaked havoc. Humanity fought back. Good enough for you?”

“For me? Yes.” He leaned back, crossed his arms and smiled a wry smile. “Although your mother might prefer you not use a snotty tone when reciting the history of humanity’s most trying experience.”

A gentle ping sounded from the speakers near the ceiling of the amphitheater, and it echoed between the marble pillars along the top row. Molambique Triam — the representative from Neo Berlin’s Fifth District — made her way down to the stage. She turned, and as she did her flowing white dress followed like a frothy wave.

“No,” Armando whined. “Why are you wearing that dress the day after Carnivale, woman? You’re offending half the delegation.”

“Shhh,” Gabriel said, leaning forward and setting his cup of coffee on the rail that divided the audience chamber from the back row of the amphitheater. Armando was right — the dress was cut low, revealing a fair amount of chest. But at least the dress was beautiful, and it perfectly complemented Representative Triam’s dark brown skin. Gabriel loved it when Neo Berlin’s reps demonstrated sophistication to the world delegation.

“The people of Neo Berlin have elected Pierre Price to serve on the Ark,” she announced.

The conversation began. Holograms spoke amongst each other. Some spoke with delegates from Neo Berlin, others from different cities. Near Gabriel, two holograms — a middle-aged man and a younger woman — spoke heatedly with one another.

“We need more artists,” the woman urged. “Writers. Actors. Entertainers. You can’t put a value on culture.”

“Pierre Price can build,” the man said. “It’s wise enough. Although the newer structures he’s designed leave much to be desired. I hope he’s learned a thing or two about simplicity. He won’t find a glass factory on New Earth.”

“Who is this Price?” Armando asked, putting an arm around Gabriel. Gabriel allowed it, although he wished he could get inside Armando’s head. They’d been on three dates — what, exactly, did Armando want? In just a few short months, Gabriel would no doubt be whisked away to University, maybe in another city entirely.

And that was the death knell of any relationship. Mag-rail trips between the cities were expensive. Shields, Spartan guards, limited space . . .

“He’s a building designer,” Gabriel said, shaking away the other thoughts. “Parliament wants the first colony on New Earth to have a good number of architects. Price is a good choice, although he does obsess over detail.” He grunted. “He’ll drive some of the colonists mad.”

“And now democracy rears its ugly head.” Armando leaned forward, watching the thrall of delegates move from row to row, arguing and speaking heatedly in ever-growing groups.

“It’s slow,” Gabriel said. “But it’s also beautiful. The free people are selecting twenty thousand volunteers. Another forty thousand will be selected from the lottery. Each of the three clans gets to pick five thousand of their own. It’s as fair a process as you can expect when you’re planning an emergency colonization.”

“Oh? And you know this for a fact, even though it’s never been done?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “What I mean is the decision was made fairly, and by representatives of Parliament. It’s as good as democracy gets.”

“Except for those who get a free pass,” Armando said slyly. “People like you who are much too important to leave behind.”

Gabriel snorted. He grabbed his cup, thumbing the bio-plastic lid. “You won’t see me on the Ark. I have no intention of ever abandoning this planet.”

“Are you crazy? You have a chance to make history!” Armando held up a hand, spelling out a news headline: “Parliamentary Golden Boy Elected First Premier of New Earth.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“Sounds amazing. Though what if the Ark travels through its wormhole thingy and it turns out the planet’s not ready yet?” Armando laughed. He had such a sinister sense of humor. “All those hundreds of thousands of terraforming bots we sent through are just sitting around, arguing amongst themselves like our delegates here. Oh, were we supposed to convert the air? I don’t know about that. Do you know, Robot-Two? I thought I was in charge of building soil, Robot-One.”

“I hope Clan Persia doesn’t have any bots that talk to one another,” Gabriel said. “That kind of AI is forbidden.”

Armando gently squeezed the back of his neck. “You’re too uptight.”

“I’m supposed to be uptight. I’m important, remember?”

“So you have no interest in colonizing New Earth. You have no interest in exploring the new world. You have no interest in living Specter-free. No interest in watching elephants and mastodons and tigers and rabbits frolic to their hearts’ content.”

Gabriel laughed. “It all sounds wonderful. But I’d rather save this planet first. I don’t know. It feels like we’re giving up.”

The chime rang again. The crowd silenced. Molambique was still standing in the stage below. She waved a hand and the remaining whispers died down. “There is news from outside the protected city of Lakota. A Coterie has repaired the mag-rail transport line from Lakota to Neo Berlin, but has returned this troubling footage.”

She stepped back. A hologram appeared above the stage, revealing a dark forest with just a hint of a reddish glow, as if one of the trees was on fire. Gabriel leaned over the rail, watching. The footage was clearly from the camera on someone’s smartglasses, shaking as the person scrambled to take cover behind a quartet of boulders. There was no sound, or if there was, it was deathly silent.

“Now what’s all this,” Armando whispered.

Suddenly, a Sebecus Specter slipped through the trees like a ghost, walking on all fours. Its long tail swung from side to side as if it were a fish’s tail, propelling it toward the camera. A squirrel, caught unawares in the silence, darted under the creature. It reached down with one clawed, humanoid hand, as if it meant to grab the squirrel and squeeze the life from the poor critter. Instead, the hand passed through the squirrel. Its body convulsed. Its brown fur turned gray like paper charred by flames. Gabriel felt a terrible anger toward the ghostly creature, glaring at it as it turned its attention back to whoever was wearing the smartglasses.

The Sebecus Specter’s mouth opened. A low, haunting moan echoed through the amphitheater. Gabriel felt a chill run down his spine. Murmurs drowned out the sound and he was thankful for it.

“Kill it,” he whispered. “Kill it.”

The Specter’s head turned. And then a flurry of blue proton bullets ripped through its ghost-like body. Its fiery glow turned blaze orange. Its long, uncannily human-like fingers dug into the earth as it broke into a silent run, its tail swinging left and right. By the gods, it was so fast. It opened its mouth again. It reached the boulders and landed on top of whoever was filming the carnage even as more proton bullets tore through its body. Yellow claws reached toward the camera. The camera lurched backward, revealing blue sky and the Ring, circling Earth and no doubt watching with bemusement at the carnage.

More bullets. The Specter faded to a dim yellow, then broke apart.

The amphitheater cheered. Gabriel felt a well of relief surge through him. He was angry at the creature, glad it had been destroyed, and wished he could see it die again and again.

Someone suggested commendations for the Coterie. The idea was quickly seconded.

“There are more in the area,” Molambique announced. “Clan Sparta has requested funding for an emergency cleanup operation.”

“It’s a waste,” said someone from the other side of the amphitheater. “More will fall from the sky and replace those. Killing Specters outside the city Xenoshields means nothing.”

Murmurs of agreement. Gabriel felt frustration well up inside him.

“Killing them always means something!” he shouted.

The crowd quieted, turning in his direction. The moment some recognized him, they began whispering amongst themselves. “Carmen’s son” spread like wildfire. He knew some — his mother’s enemies — would shut him out if he faltered, so he leaned on the barrier and raised his voice: “Every Specter on this planet poses a threat, shields be damned! And every dead Specter brings us one step closer to a free Earth!”

The din was increasing in volume. Even those who generally supported Gabriel’s mother couldn’t allow a non-delegate to monopolize the forum. He raised his voice louder: “Or have you all accepted Earth’s fate? Are you all hoping to claim a seat on the Ark and abandon this planet forever? Go, if that’s what you want! Abandon us, but please for the sake of humanity resign your post first! Let those of us who care about this planet make the decision of whether to save it!”

Cheers. Applause. Objections. Arguments. And finally: a voice vote.

“All in favor of approving financing for the Spartan operation?” Molambique asked. There was a chorus of ayes. “All opposed?” A much softer murmuring of nays. Molambique smiled up at Gabriel. “The motion passes. Clan Sparta has approval to remove any additional Specters in the immediate vicinity of the attack.”

Gabriel slipped past Armando, grabbing his coffee with one shaky hand. He could feel a rush of energy coursing through his body and walking fast was the only way to keep the giddiness at bay. He could deny his destiny all he wanted, but he couldn’t deny that he loved the thrill of the forum.

“Democracy strikes again,” Armando said, falling in line beside him. “Your mother will be none too pleased. The son of the Premier is just a citizen, after all.”

“This isn’t the first time her first son has crashed a forum,” Gabriel said. “And it won’t be the last. Give me a place to stand and I will move the Earth.”

“Homer? Bravo. But they have a point, you know. The Ring has an endless supply of Specters with which to torment us. Every time two chunks of ice crash into one another, Specters go flying like sparks from a dry piece of kindling.”

“The Ring is a finite object,” Gabriel snapped. “Building a massive ship and shooting it into another galaxy isn’t going to save humanity. Abandoning Earth won’t save humanity.”

They walked down the empty hall and through a pair of sliding doors, which led to the capitol rotunda, a large circular space in the center of the Parliament building. Gabriel walked to the marble railing and looked down: the rotunda was three levels deep, and below he could see other Neo Berlin Parliamentarians milling about near the railing. On the lowest level, a cleaner bot was dutifully polishing the glossy floors, spinning its circular body.

Above Gabriel’s head was a mural of Neo Berlin’s history, an old-fashioned painting that had been painstakingly restored only a few years ago. The images celebrated Neo Berlin’s achievements: a world peace agreement, the first Phenocyte reactor, the development of a gene therapy for PX54 cancer, and the heroic stand against the Specters in the town of Jericho, just west of the city.

“I hate that mural,” Armando said, leaning next to him and looking up. “Must we trumpet our successes?”

“Who else will,” Gabriel murmured.

“You forget about Carnivale.”

“I can’t forget about Carnivale,” Gabriel said with a smile. Last night’s festivities were supposed to mark humanity’s great “triumph” over its greatest threat: the Specters. But Gabriel no longer saw it that way. After all, what was a triumph when the last of humanity was sequestered inside invisible bubbles?

The entire world, celebrating. Pointing up at the Ring and laughing. Running through the streets trailed by Specters made of orange fabric and paper composite until the effigies were surrounded and violently lit on fire. Cheering. Sweat clinging to foreheads. Orange flames reflected in the windows of skyscrapers. Gabriel had seen it every year of his life, and last night he’d seen enough.

So he’d snuck away. The Martinez family was supposed to be at one of the “main events” where an effigy of a Specter was set ablaze, but in the chaos of the reveries it was easy for Gabriel to make like a ghost. The Metropolis of Neo Berlin may have embraced Carnivale, but that didn’t mean there weren’t quiet spaces. Spaces he could get away from the madness. Spaces he could hear himself think.

He went east, following a street named after a Persian inventor whose very cleaning bots were even now skittering along the wide sidewalk, sucking up confetti and littered cups. He walked between towering skyscrapers made of glass and steel — durable, even in earthquakes. And yet if the shield ever fell, the Specters would kill anyone hiding inside. They would kill everyone, passing through their bodies like ghosts and leaving grayed husks of rotting flesh.

That was when he found the Bridge.

Gabriel had known there was a small lake on the east side of the city, but the neighborhood was Persian, full of techies and tech companies and experimental bots roaming around like lost souls . . . not Gabriel’s cup of tea. But this area was quiet during Carnivale, and Gabriel had felt drawn to the silence like a moth to a flame. When he reached the lake, he was shocked to find that running across the center of the small lake was a bridge that dipped into the water.

Gabriel stepped closer until he was at the top of a small staircase leading down to the lakeshore. The bridge was made of some kind of concrete, dividing the lake in two like a channel. The concrete walls of the bridge were just tall enough to reach the surface of the water. Water poured over the sides of the concrete walls, but instead of flooding the walkway, the water disappeared into grates running along the floor.

Gabriel walked down, aided by the green light of fireflies floating over the water. They gave the impression that the dark water on either side of him was composed of entire galaxies, and he dipped his finger into the water. Ripples distorted the reflection of the green starlight. He walked across the bridge and he could almost feel the weight of the water on either side, so desperate to close this unnatural gap. This channel made of concrete.

But humanity had bested it. With a clever design and underground pumps and careful measurements, humanity had won.

It was beautiful.

“Gabe!”

He shook the memory from his head, spinning around at the familiar voice. His sister Wei was running toward him, trailed slowly by Margaret, her nanny. Wei was wearing an Ecosuit, just like him — she looked like she was ready to be shot into space. The Ecosuits always reminded Gabriel of the type of thin-layer spacesuit that would fit right in inside a space-and-Specters holo-flick. Like that new one, what was it called? The Space War or something like that. Awful movie with an awful moral message: shoot your way out of every problem.

“You look great, little stink bug!” he said, bending down so she could hug him. “Are you excited?”

“Of course!” she squealed. “Hi, Armando.”

“Hello, little princess,” Armando said. He gave Margaret a nod. The poor elderly woman looked flushed and out of breath. “Margaret, I must buy you a cup of tea.”

“Of course,” the nanny said. “That sounds like just what I need after our hurried entrance. Dear, I feel as if I may pass out at any moment.” She turned to Gabriel, sighing. “I can assure you she did not forget anything. And her suit fits perfectly.”

“Good.” Gabriel looked down at Wei. Her straight black hair was held back with little pink barrettes. “You look like the spitting image of a Spartan soldier.”

Wei put her fists on her hips, striking a pose. They all laughed.

“Well, let’s not keep our Coterie waiting,” Gabriel said.

Armando crossed his arms. “Yes, the Proving is such an important thing. We absolutely must send children out beyond the safety of the Xenoshield so that they may experience true danger blah, blah, blah, Democracy-this, humanity-that.”

“Sarcasm duly noted.” He looked to Armando and Margaret. “Wish us luck.”

Armando pecked him on the cheek. “Do be careful.”

“Something tells me this mission won’t be difficult,” Gabriel said, forcing a smile. “I doubt my mother would put either of us in mortal danger.”

“Your mother’s reach only goes so far,” Armando said with a hint of worry.

Gabriel reached down and grabbed his sister’s hand. “Come along, little soldier. It’s time to prove ourselves.”

“Please be careful,” Armando called out.

Gabriel felt just a twinge of empathy at the sound of his worried voice. “There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”

Chapter 4: Cleopatra Kashani

Clan Persia

Cleo woke to an alarm. Not her usual school alarm, which made an obnoxiously loud beep-beep-beep noise. This alarm was a gentle chime, just loud enough to wake her without the sense of urgency that accompanied a school day. Why was it going off again? She opened her eyes, blinking a few times and rubbing the crust away from the corners, then cursing Clan Athens for not inventing an eye drop that cured morning eye boogers. What did they do in those labs all day long? What was more important than a freaking eye booger cure?

She yawned and looked at the clock.

8:26.

“Sacrebleu!” Cleo cursed as she threw aside her covers. 26 minutes?! The gentle alarm had been going off for 26 minutes?!

“You dummy,” she told her brain, kicking aside dirty clothes to get to her closet. She tapped the panel on the wall and the closet door slid open. The light turned on. A gentle woman’s voice greeted her through the little speakers in the ceiling.

“Good morning, your majesty.”

The royal greeting was a hack. Her idea.

“Good morning, Lucrecia,” she murmured, grabbing her Ecosuit.

Lucrecia, also her idea, had just sounded like a good name for a computer voice.

“Reza!” she shouted, pounding on the wall a few times. “You’d better be up, you little butthead!”

Something was wrong. It was too dark. Darkness was bad in the morning. Darkness made Cleo want to crawl back into her warm bed. “Chi, open windows,” she instructed. A large poster of her favorite Disco Metal band (The Deranged Boogie-Woogies) rose up into the ceiling, revealing Takashi Park, the city’s northeastern park, bathed in golden morning sunlight. Below, people walked between the Athenian fruit trees. Little kids on field trips sat beside a tall marble fountain while a teaching hologram guided them through some lesson or other. Someone was flying a yellow kite. Others were jogging and completely ignoring the hideous Ring looming above like some glowing celestial buzz saw.

Free citizens who didn’t belong to a clan and could thus avoid the pointless Proving ritual.

“Chi, live feed off.”

The image blinked off. Now she could see her real view: the eastern edge of Neo Berlin’s downtown district. Tall skyscrapers that blotted out the sun and any view of Takashi Park and the world beyond the shield.

Across the street was the CP-Tech skyscraper, sleek and glassy and shaped like a staircase. CP-Tech had been started by Fen-ra Tawanabe, a member of Clan Persia. She’d taken a simple idea (ultra-violet computer processors) and turned it into a massive empire. Now, there was a CP-Tech building in every remaining city. CP-Tech was the dream. It was said that every five floors, there was a level filled with relaxation and entertainment devices. Holoscreens and virtual reality helmets and hammocks and libraries. Work, but don’t work yourself to death — that was the CP-Tech motto. Cleo dreamed of working there and writing a program (new GPS coordination for the delivery drones!) that would wow management. Cleo would be whisked into Mrs. Tawanabe’s office. The chairwoman would promptly commend Cleo and offer her a cushy job working with the totally amazing team that had developed the Artemis Bow, civilization’s best hope in surviving the Specter threat.

Yes, the Artemis Bow. Cleo laughed. “Because what better way to save humanity than by throwing a ship full of fools through a wormhole? What could possibly go wrong? Get aboard this giant spaceship, everyone! OK, now hold on . . . this giant station shaped like a bow is going to open a wormhole . . . nothing to worry about!”

Cleo unstrapped her Ecosuit, climbing into it and pulling her feet through the leggings. It was a little tight — she’d put on a few pounds since she’d been fitted six months ago. But she’d also made some improvements. Nothing too extreme, and certainly nothing that would get her disqualified from the Proving (she’d double- and triple-checked the guidelines). First, she was absolutely not wearing the combat boots provided with the suit. For one thing, they weren’t that comfortable. For another thing, she had a sixth toe on her right foot. For another thing, she didn’t like the color gray. It was bad enough that the suit was mostly gray — the only saving grace was the purple lining around each of the suit’s plates to signify Clan Persia’s official color.

So she cut the bottoms of each leg on the suit using a laser cutter, made just a little modification to ensure her ankles would be comfortable if her feet began swelling (which they sometimes did) and then added her specially fitted black combat boots.

That was it. Just a simple modification. A hack to ensure optimum quality, comfort, and style. She zipped up the suit, tightened the purple-lined straps around her torso, then shut the closet door and looked in the mirror. She looked good. Her black hair, buzzed on the sides and sitting lazily on her shoulders, contrasted well with the gray suit. Her skin, a fair shade of brown, looked just a little oily but most of the previous week’s zits had disappeared. All in all, she was ready for this.

She didn’t want to do it, but at least she was ready.

“Reza!” she shouted. “You’d better be up or I swear I’ll drag you out of bed!”

She stepped over the papers on the floor that were surrounding an old half-rebuilt bot engine (still leaking veggie oil from somewhere, hence the papers). She pressed the top button on the glass computer screen beside her bedroom door. Her gadget drawer slid out of the wall, revealing a veritable assortment of doodads, electronics, and junk. Old cell phones, old datasticks, broken portable MRI devices swiped from school that she’d modified to take really good magnetic images, even a little motherboard containing some interesting information regarding field tests for Excelsior Corp’s newest line of driverless cars. And that was just the regular junk! There was also the pure junk: a variety of wires, LCD screens (plus two cracked holo-bulbs), old datapads whose buttons had been worn down by thousands (millions?) of finger taps.

But there was also a variety of goodies, not the least of which being Cleo’s super-secret datastick. The datastick contained all of Cleo’s best programs, from simple banking software to a premium hack that simplified any vehicle’s controls into a uniform schematic. It came in handy when autotaxis broke down, and best of all it had been so simple to make that she hadn’t even needed to sacrifice homework time to finish.

Now the backdoor virus surf she’d designed to sneak into private communication channels? That was a headache. It still didn’t work quite the way she wanted it to . . .

Then there was her prized possession: her VRacelet. Every New Adult in Clan Persia got a VRacelet for their 18th birthday and the moment and it was programmed to recognize the wearer’s DNA signature. It checked Cleo’s as she strapped it around her wrist, taking a simple skin sample from the small square hole in her spidersilk fabric sleeve. Once the DNA sample was confirmed, the VRacelet’s touchscreen booted up.

A bright blue shimmer engulfed her hand, and then just as quickly it was gone. Cleo ran her finger along the touchscreen, opening up the Combat program. It took a moment. It wasn’t supposed to take a moment, but then again this particular VRacelet wasn’t supposed to do much besides carry the most basic programs. Every parent in Clan Persia had to chip in for their kid’s VRacelet, and there were different models. The idea was to encourage parents to be a little responsible (“Hey, your kid might have to fight Specters so you should probably save up for a good VRacelet”) but the problem was that Cleo’s parents had apparently missed that memo.

And so she was stuck with the cheap one. Which of course meant she had to spend a good deal of her free time tinkering with it to make it a little bit more useable. At least until she could afford a better one. Maybe in a year or two, after some Persian data corp was sufficiently impressed with her programming abilities and offered her a job.

She flicked her wrist to the right. The blue shimmer reappeared, encapsulating her right hand like a weightless, translucent sledgehammer. Slowly, she closed her hand into a fist. Two triangle-shaped objects emerged from the blue image, like the horns of some mighty beast. Proton blades. Harmless to humans — minus a little shock to anyone not wearing an Ecosuit — but downright deadly to Specters.

The blades were weightless and see-through, like some primitive hologram. She flicked her wrist left. The proton blades disappeared. A small red flickering beam appeared from the front of the VRacelet. She flashed the beam across the panel on her bedroom door. Immediately, a flood of data appeared on the touchscreen.

“Chi, open,” she said. Nothing happened. Oh right! She’d changed the protocol on her VRacelet. “Crudmissile, open.”

The door slid open. Cleo snickered at her own inside joke.

She went into the bathroom. The glass on the shower stall was dry, which meant Ma and Pa hadn’t showered yet this morning. They would be late for work again. Or maybe they took the day off to take Cleo and Reza to Parliament . . .

“Yeah right,” she whispered, tapping the white tiles underneath the porcelain sink. Her drawer slid out from the film-encrusted cabinet, revealing her personalized necessities for everyday life. She had a system. As much as she hated the stereotype that everyone in Clan Persia was an obsessive-compulsive, she liked having her morning routine. Normally, this meant a shower first followed by a unique application of makeup to cover a couple cheek zits, but today there was no time. Instead, she hastily swished mouthwash as she ran a brush through her snarly black hair, gathering it back in a ponytail. That would have to do.

“Reza!” she shouted down the hall. “Get. Up!”

The mirror began beeping in reminder, accompanied by a little blinking light in the lower left hand corner. “Thank you,” she murmured, blowing onto the red light. Green text appeared on the bottom of the mirror:

PLEASE WAIT.

“No rush,” Cleo said, grabbing her pair of contacts from the little case in her drawer. She popped them in while the mirror continued profiling her DNA data. “Crudmissile: lens power on.”

A little targeting reticule appeared on her face in the mirror. Transparent light-emitting diodes turned each contact lens into a computer screen. Her lenses and her VRacelet exchanged packets of data. Blue words appeared beside her reflection:

NAME: CLEOPATRA KASHANI

CLAN PERSIA

18 YEARS OLD

“Crudmissile: ID system off.”

The diodes inside her lenses stopped projecting the words. Her reflection stared back at her, shoulders slumped, bags under eyes, hair just a little too frizzy. She didn’t need her contacts on to notice that her normally beautiful brown skin just didn’t have the same golden glow without a good shower. What these contacts needed was a program that taught them how to hide blemishes.

Her contact lenses had a wireless chip inside them that transmitted information to the VRacelet. The VRacelet could take commands and transmit them to the lenses, but it needed a name to differentiate between commands and regular conversation. Otherwise, the user might be talking to a boyfriend and say the wrong word and then (wham!) all of a sudden another friend’s personal social network profile is blotting out his cute face.

Any name could be used to send commands. Most people stuck with the standard “Chi.” Cleo chose “Crudmissile” for sole purpose of making her classmates laugh.

Her instructor had not been amused. There had been a long discussion containing key phrases like “VRacelets are not toys” and “what if you forget while you’re being chased by Specters?” and “Blah blah blah technology should be respected.”

The green words at the bottom of the mirror changed:

DNA SCAN COMPLETE. NO ANOMALIES DETECTED.

“Fantastic,” she said, bounding out of the bathroom. She speed-walked to the end of the hall and pounded on her brother’s door. “Reza! Did you hear me? We’ve gotta go NOW!”

Her brother gave a muffled response. She tapped the button beside the door.

Locked.

“Reza, you’re not smart enough to keep me locked out!” she shouted, flicking her VRacelet left. The scanning tool reappeared. She scanned the button beside her brother’s door. It took a snapshot of the code, then sent it directly to Cleo’s personal cryptography program. In the blink of an eye, the door whooshed open.

Reza was sitting at his computer terminal, dressed in his Ecosuit and slumped in his chair. His shades were drawn. Unlike Cleo’s shades, Reza’s were currently displaying a violent still image from DoomMaster3, the newest adventure game that every thirteen-year-old wanted to play. Reza wasn’t playing that game at his console, though . . . he was playing something else entirely. Something with a wizard shooting bolts of blue lighting in every direction. It made her mad, seeing him glued there. He’d clearly been up most of the night (or never went to sleep at all). It reminded her of their parents and if there was one thing she didn’t want Reza to become, it was their parents.

“What the heck are you doing?” she asked, kicking aside two bio-plastic racetracks strewn across the floor. One of the little toy cars landed on Reza’s messy bed. Cleo grabbed his shoulder plate and pulled. “Come on, bro-bro. We’ve gotta go.”

“I’m ready,” he said, clearly annoyed. “Let me just save what I’m doing, OK? Cleo! Cleo, stop it!”

She let go, watching his fingers glide across his keypad. There were two holographic boxes floating above the holo-bulb: one displayed a very rudimentary video-game world with a crudely-pixelated forest, while the other displayed a black box with lines of complex command strings. Words appeared quickly on the black box. It took only a nanosecond for her to realize he wasn’t saving anything. He was typing more code!

“Right. Now,” she said through gritted teeth.

Reza sighed dramatically and turned off the terminal. The two floating boxes disappeared.

“Up. Let’s go.”

“I don’t wanna do this.”

“Neither do I,” she said, pushing him toward the door. He looked ridiculous in his Ecosuit. He was a shade beyond chubby, and the purple straps on the suit had been haphazardly slapped across his torso. “Just wait,” she said, tugging on the straps and realigning them so the magnets clicked perfectly into place.

“It’s too tight.”

“Well, whose fault is that? We have a gym on the second floor.”

“Ma and Pa don’t use the gym. They’re fine.”

“Riiiiiiight.” She herded him down the hall, into the living room. The shades were drawn. There was no point in pulling them up; Ma and Pa preferred the darkness everywhere in the house while they lived inside their virtual world; it made it easier to escape the real world if it couldn’t be seen. She stopped at the door to their office, tapping the button on the wall.

The door whooshed open with a watery splash (Pa’s idea). Inside, the room was dark save for the glow of the two holoscreens set up in the middle of the room. Ma and Pa were sitting in a pair of black chairs set up in front of each screen, their eyes covered by black virtua-visors. They were playing the same game they’d been playing for two years: Mother Earth. The one that let people explore Earth beyond the safety of the city shields. An Earth free of Specters. An Earth that wasn’t orbited by the Ring so the stars could be seen every night. Earth one-point-zero.

In other words, Ma and Pa were obviously not going to work. Again.

“We’re leaving,” Cleo announced. “Off to certain doom. OK? OK. Bye.”

She waited a moment, just a moment. When neither responded, she pounded the command button beside the door. It closed with the sound of a wave crashing onto shore.

The elevator took them down, opening up into the apartment lobby. Their boots tapped on the tile floor. In the manager’s office, Pam was sitting at her desk talking into her earpiece. She gave a little wave and Cleo waved back. Pam was nice, but sometimes when Cleo had her networking app turned on, her contacts would announce to her that Pam wasn’t actually talking to anyone on the other line even when Pam was clearly talking to someone. That confused the heck out of Cleo. Why would someone pretend to be busy?

The rest of the lobby was plain, with sleek walls and two touchscreens that were programmed to play news during the morning hours. Each screen had a sound dampener built in, so when Cleo and Reza passed the news screen with the reporter discussing the latest Disc Toss scores, that’s what they heard. When they passed the second screen with a reporter discussing a temporary power fluctuation, that’s what they heard.

“. . . recorded a 1.3, and experts suggest the minor shift may have caused Phenocyte reactor two’s emergency safeguards to turn on, stabilizing the lasers.”

“Sounds like a bunch of hooey,” Cleo said. “There’s fifteen emergency safeguards built into the Phenocyte reactors.”

“Fifteen?!” Reza asked, his voice cracking.

Cleo chuckled and put an arm around his shoulders. “Ah, puberty. It’s taken a hold of you and won’t let go for years and years, bro-bro.”

All joking aside, the new report got her thinking. Maybe the power fluctuation messed with her alarm clock, resetting the volume. Those old clocks did have wonky operating systems . . .

The mailbox sat on the wall next to a holo-terminal, currently offering a screensaver slideshow of images of the city’s tallest skyscrapers. Each one was a slight variation of the same theme: lots of shaded windows and Durasteel exterior beams. The Clan Persia headquarters looked like it had giant steps, as if different-sized boxes had been placed haphazardly one atop the other. The Clan Athens building had a more artistic design, with a curved upper level that hung off like the letter R. The Clan Sparta building was an ugly, squat thing, located on the northern end of the city and surrounded by open training fields.

And then there were the rest. Dozens and dozens of buildings, each one defined by a certain unique beauty. Neo Berlin building codes dictated that every ten levels, an entire level must utilize vertical farming techniques. How each building’s architects chose to do this was their decision. For some, it meant developing a veritable cornucopia of genetically engineered fruits and vegetables and angled mirrors to catch sunlight. For others, it meant wide, extended levels filled with exotic trees. For one building on the eastern side of the city, the developers had skirted the law entirely by allowing the entire building to be overtaken with a genetically modified plum vine. The ripened fruit hung from the vines; people opened their windows and grabbed what they needed. Clan Athens made sure each engineered plum contained a finely tuned assortment of nutrients.

Cleo loved those plums, and had no problem climbing the vines to get at them.

“I thought you said we were late,” Reza said with a snotty sneer.

“You should take it in while you can,” Cleo told him with a wry smile. “This may just be the last time you see this place.”

“Shut up!”

“Go.” She gave him a shove to the door. It whooshed open, thankfully without any annoying sea sounds to accompany it. Cool, clean air greeted them outside. Cleo’s Ecosuit filtered the cool and kept her body warm. Crud, she thought; it was just the kind of day when Cleo found herself wishing she could feel it. She loved the days that were just cool enough to warrant a sleeved shirt. If she was just wearing a simple sweatshirt and thin polyfiber pants, she’d be able to feel that chill air slipping across her entire body, reminding her that all she needed to do was add another layer to maximize warmth. She liked that feeling that came with solving problems.

Someday, she would work in an office with an open window.

A green autotaxi was coming down the street, right behind a compact three-wheeler, its two narrow front wheels turning ever so slightly to guide it into the center lane of traffic. The nearby driverless cars shifted simultaneously to make room for the autotaxi as it pulled to the curb.

“In, in, in,” Cleo said, tapping Reza on the butt.

“Boy, you’re bossy today!” he muttered.

They got inside, stretching out their legs. The driverless cab waited, its little screen just above the radio panel announcing that its name was GreenCab. Obviously, Cleo thought. Seriously, couldn’t they put a little personality into their CPU’s? Even with the strict anti-AI laws, there was still some room for innovation. Clever algorithms that felt like AI, for instance.

“GreenCab, take us to Parliament building,” Cleo said. She watched as her words appeared on the screen. It changed to a map, pinpointing the Parliament building downtown. A red band of text appeared, asking for 3.3 credits.

“I don’t know why you want me with you anyway,” Reza said. He dug his finger into his curly black hair, scratching furiously. “I’m just gonna slow everyone down.”

“You’re . . . ugh!” Cleo found her credits card in the spare metal compartment on her belt and flashed it in front of the white scanning strip on the door. The cab lurched forward, pulling into traffic. “You’re not going to slow us down,” she said, leaning back and letting her muscles relax. So they’d be a little late. Big deal. If anyone was mad, let them go tell off her parents.

And hey, maybe she’d have woken up on time if the city hadn’t kept her awake half the night with their stupid Carnivale celebrations. Really! Did it have to be every year? Every single year? Couldn’t they take a few years off? Then it would be exciting again. And fun. Cleo could remember a couple times out with her parents — before that stupid virtual game sucked them in — when they saw kick-ass fireworks and wild costumes and crazy Specter-shaped balloons floating through the city. That was great . . . but it got old.

“We’re coming back, right?” Reza said. “I’m not scared or anything so don’t say something stupid like that. I’m just worried about my program.”

“You mean your game.”

“So what? Just cause it’s a game doesn’t mean it’s not important.”

“It’s not important. You’re supposed to be studying combat tactics. Schoolmaster wants you designing programs for Clan Sparta’s combat division. That’s a big opportunity, bro-bro. Don’t poop it away.”

Reza snickered. The taxi picked up speed, taking the ramp onto the multi-level expressway that snaked its way around the city. The moment the taxi was in its lane, the mag-lev system kicked in, pushing the entire vehicle off the ground. At the first fork, the taxi slowed. Somewhere in its electronic guts, it sent a ping to the mag-lev system, very politely requesting a track change. The mag-lev system obliged, guiding the taxi into the left lane.

Cleo put an arm around her brother. “We’ll be fine. I had a little peek at our mission.”

“What? How?”

Cleo shrugged. “Just a little sneaking around a few unofficial comm channels. All we gotta do is go check out an emergency supply depot. It’s probably an old door locking mechanism. Those things never work right.”

“Still, it’s a little scary, being out past the Xenoshield.”

“Oh pu-leaze! You and the other kids probably can just sit in the vehicle while we New Adults go out and do whatever we have to do. Then we head back and celebrate and eat cake and drink the blood of our ancestors, or fruit juice if that’s not available.” She looked at him and smiled.

“What if I’m a little nervous?”

Cleo shrugged, looking out the window to watch the city pass. “That depends on who you are, I guess. If you’re from Clan Sparta, they’d say you’re weak. If you’re from Clan Athens, they’d say something nerdy like that’s just a natural reflex to help you cope. But if you’re from Clan Persia . . .”

“Yeah?”

She’d lost her thought. She was staring out at the southwestern park, visible between the skyscrapers — Dalla Sanjay Memorial Park. Tall apple trees and banana trees (engineered in Clan Athens labs) lined the paths. There was a Disc Toss course on one end, a large pond lined with reeds on the far end, and a whole lot of families out enjoying the sun. Kids romping on grass-stained legs and running between the trees while their parents gathered nutrient-rich apples for lunch.

It was all fun and games until some creepy bug showed up to ruin everything. Cleo could remember being at that park just once. She’d been ten and Reza had been five, wearing Cleo’s old shorts and tripping over them. Cleo remembered hiding behind an apple tree, gripping the rough bark while she waited for little Reza to find her. She felt a tickle on the back of her hand.

Then she looked down and saw the spider.

“Someday, we won’t even need trees and plants,” Cleo said. “And then we won’t need spiders. Clan Athens is totally gonna pull it off. Won’t that be something? Won’t it be just totally awesome to get all of our food from a printer?”

“No. What the heck are you talking about with spiders?”

She turned to him and smiled. “Totally agree, bro-bro. I was being sarcastic. Kind of. Well, except for the whole spiders thing. You have to learn to pick up on that or kids are going to bust you up when you get to secondary school.”

“Who cares? I don’t need other kids.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve got your game so what else do you need, right?” Cleo shook her head. She had to fight the urge to shake her little brother and tell him the truth: it gets lonely. Sitting alone in a dark room writing code gets so lonely, and you start talking to yourself, and you start to change, and then you convince yourself that you don’t need other people, and then you get jealous that other people in class are becoming friends. And then you’re left hanging with the students who have been labeled “weirdos.” And they’re not weird, necessarily, but they sure as heck aren’t the most fun to eat lunch with.

Pretty soon, you’re sitting in your room rebuilding an old bot mainframe while the rest of the city celebrates Carnivale. And the scariest part? You kind of like it.

The car exited the freeway, entering the commercial district. Even with the morning sun the flashing lights and massive video ads seemed incredibly bright, casting blue and red and yellow glows over the mag-rail expressway, reflecting even more brightly off the silver guidance coils. Flashing text promised the benefits of health drinks, beautiful women modeled expensive clothing with overlong sleeves (sooo last year), and Athenian food companies touted the latest synthetic meats.

“Maybe getting a little dangerous, fresh, country air will be nice,” Cleo said.

“What are you, some kind of doo-doo brain?” Reza asked, eyes wide. As if it was a serious, non-hypothetical question. “There’s fresh air everywhere! It’s all fresh air. We’re going to be without our computers for hours. Hours!”

Cleo smiled and held up her VRacelet. “You might not have a computer, but I do.”

His wide brown eyes followed her wrist as she waved it side to side. “Did you hack it?”

“Of course, bro-bro.”

“Did you put any games on it? Tree Fight or Frantic Ferrets or Wild Aces?”

“Maybe. I guess you’ll just have to be good to find out.” She reached into one of the small supply packs on her belt, pulling out a stick of Ultra-Fresh gum.

“Hey! What gives? Do I have gum, too?”

“Check your belt,” she said absently, watching the commercial district give way to smaller residential buildings. The nice downtown neighborhood, filled with important people and happy families who ate supper together every night.

He reached in the same pack on his belt, pulling out a ration snack. He sniffed the package. “This smells like poop.”

Cleo snickered. “Stinks to be you . . . literally!”

The car pulled over in front of the Parliament building. They stepped outside, onto the pale sidewalk that led up a small hill. The building was broad and squat, dwarfed by a dozen much taller residential towers that kept a respectful distance. The building had a very modern feel to it, shaped like four rolling waves made of tinted glass. Each wave folded over into the other, as if a breeze was scraping across the surface of an ocean. Cleo neither liked it nor hated it; she was more interested in whether she could (with a running start) run right up the sloping glass and maybe pretend she was surfing before any Spartan security could stop her. Bright green grass surrounded the building, and people — free citizens, not clan members — milled about, no doubt either talking about laws or complaining about their “volunteer” service in Parliament’s chamber of commons.

“Yeah,” Cleo said, “these people got it tough, don’t they bro-bro?”

Reza just shrugged. He was watching a woman sitting on one of the benches along the main walk. She was busily tapping away at a computer pad on her lap. Was her brother looking at the woman or the computer? She wondered.

“Let’s go.” She grabbed his hand. Together, they walked in through the front doors of the structure, behind a handful of school kids and their teacher who were there for a tour. Parliament was an open space, sprawling, confusing, and way too full of people for Cleo’s tastes. But they weren’t going to sit in on a Parliamentary debate. No, they had special privileges today. Two Spartan security guards escorted them through the security sensors and to a pair of side elevators with shiny brass doors. One of the guards flashed his security card across the reader panel. The touchscreen above the panel read PLEASE WAIT.

The Spartans were giving her a weird look. She casually checked the touchscreen of her VRacelet, sending a “wake up” message to her contact lenses. Two targeting reticules appeared on the Spartan guards. Their identifications appeared beside them. Cleo tapped on the human face icon on the VRacelet screen, opening up her facial recognition program. The nano diodes inside the contacts took in the reflection on Cleo’s eyes and highlighted the faces of the Spartans, reading their expressions to identify the most likely match. In this case: smug bemusement.

The elevator doors parted.

“Good luck, Persians,” said the tall one.

Cleo forced a smile. “Thank you so much. Enjoy your day.” Once the doors closed, she added: “You big, ugly cretin.”

“He seemed nice,” Reza said.

“He was being condescending,” Cleo snapped. “He thinks we’re a bunch of weaklings.”

“Who?”

“Clan Persia. The Spartans loooooove being the big, tough guys. Or girls. Whatever.”

Reza sighed. Cleo’s facial recognition program scanned his face, registering profound bewilderment. “Why can’t we just sit in our rooms and program what we want? Why can’t I just make my video game? Why do we even need a clan at all?”

“Because it’s tradition,” Cleo said. “Because a long, long time ago people got together in groups and started worrying about other groups. Go ask a Historian. And the reason you can’t sit around designing your video game is because your class was assigned to the Spartan combat protocols. Better start getting used to it, buster. When you graduate, you’ll go work in a little cubicle and take orders for a living. Can’t you have fun making video games for the Spartans?”

“I like making video games with wizards and trolls.”

The doors opened before Reza could complain any more. Cleo put a hand on his back, then gave him a strong push. He resisted. She pushed hard. “Just go already!” she hissed. The doors shut behind them. “No going back, bro-bro. Only forward.”

“Shoot,” Reza said. “I was hoping they’d already left.”

Everyone was standing on the other end of the small subway station, waiting for them. Two from Clan Sparta. Two from Clan Athens. Two from Parliament. And the Historian.

No going back, Cleo thought. She held up her VRacelet and opened up her super-secret program marked with an X icon. She pressed it. The illegal computing chip inside her brain clicked on. She felt an exciting surge of electricity course through her brain. This was it. The Proving. The last test before official adulthood.

No going back.

Chapter 5: Seamus Oshiro

Historian

In the beginning, there was war. Then peace. Then chaos. Then balance. Then chaos. That was always how the Historians started any grand narrative. Life is circular, cyclical. And humanity never learns.

Except on the rare occasion when it does.

And here, “except” was the key word. Because sometimes, humanity fixes its problems. Sometimes, humanity learns from its mistakes.

Sometimes.

Seamus watched the last members of the Coterie exit the elevator. The New Adult — Cleo — had to give her little brother — Reza — a push. The boy was hesitant. Afraid. Seamus couldn’t make a note of the boy’s fears because it was purely speculation, and Historians weren’t allowed to speculate. But he would have to mention that Cleo pushed him out of the elevator. It was his job to ensure the entire Proving was well documented.

And then the Historian leadership would determine what was important and what could be cut. The leadership would examine video feeds from each New Adult’s glasses, then consider the account provided by Seamus. In this way, there could be no modifications of history. No tampered video feeds. No crucial moments lost from the record.

No lies from the mouth of a Historian.

“No mistakes” is what Seamus’s father had told him. The Historians had a duty to the people: to accurately record the history of Earth, unbiased and uninvolved, impassive and indifferent. Historians were spread out into every shielded city, and before the Specters arrived the Historians had been spread out all over the planet. They documented events, and then the leadership crosschecked the documentation with any video or audio evidence (there was much, given the legion of video footage in every public and private space), and then ruled on what should be preserved and what should be discarded.

They divided time into eras, for the sake of communication with citizens. The worst modern era had been the era of the Clan Wars, when tensions between the clans hit a boiling point and conflict erupted. It began the way wars always do: dwindling resources, excessive greed, honor slighted. Only this time, humanity surprised itself. Rather than wait for the world to end, free citizens with no clan affiliations stood up and demanded a permanent peace treaty. In the face of this ultimatum, in the face of mass revolt, the three clans had no choice but to comply.

Society had determined all three clans were in the wrong.

Then came the era of Phenocyte. The rare element was discovered by a space probe on an asteroid that orbited the inner solar system. A ship was launched, its trajectory carefully calculated to meet the asteroid as it passed the planet with only 200,000 kilometers to spare. A chunk was broken off and towed to near-Earth orbit, where it was analyzed and tested and documented. It could be used as energy. It could be placed in a reactor and then . . . something happened. The science always eluded Seamus. Phenocyte reactors worked like fusion reactors, with carefully placed lasers firing at a circular granule of Phenocyte, starting a chain reaction that could only be controlled by the same lasers that started the chain reaction.

Energy. Nearly free energy with no pollution. Suddenly, there were no limits. It was a second Industrial Revolution. Innovation exploded. Medical advances. Technological advances. Clean air and clean water.

Then the Specters arrived.

Seamus cleared his throat. Everyone was looking at him, including the elder from Clan Sparta. General Mitchell. He was a tall man, with an imposing cold stare. Seamus could recount by memory all ninety-three acts of heroism General Mitchell’s Coterie had performed. He looked away, collecting his carefully memorized thoughts. “One hundred and thirty-three years ago, the Specters arrived. First, a ring of energy wrapped itself around Earth. Then, the Specters descended from the Ring. No weapons could stop them. There was nowhere to hide. Towns were wiped out. Cities were abandoned. In just two years, the population of the human race was halved.”

One of the children coughed. The boy from Clan Persia. It caught Seamus off-guard and he paused. His mind froze. He couldn’t help but glance at the Spartan elder; the old man was still staring with those same cold eyes. Seamus took another breath, searching the room. He found the Parliamentarian, the eighteen-year-old named Gabriel. Son of Carmen Martinez, one of Parliament’s most beloved Premiers. The young man was wearing a grim expression, but when their eyes met he gave a little nod.

“It was the alliance that saved humanity. All three clans, working together on a solution, while the United Parliament organized a protective retreat. Shields were established around the remaining cities. Technology was developed to destroy the Specters. Brave men and women gave their lives to ensure the safety of the human race.”

Nods from the parents. Mostly blank faces from the kids. A mixture of nervousness and wariness and boredom from the New Adults. The Spartan girl of course looked ready and willing. The Athenian boy looked a bit pale. The Persian girl seemed unaware of his speech at all, more interested in the ad playing on the vid-screen built into one of the nearby pillars. The ad featured a new piece of furniture: a medieval-looking wooden chair with carved armrests. The Persians were clearly blood siblings, though Reza’s skin was darker and his hair was blacker. The girl, Cleo, had buzzed hair along the sides of her head and wore the top in a ponytail. She had thin eyebrows and a more animated face than her brother. Her light brown eyes matched her skin almost perfectly, leading Seamus to speculate that her contact lenses were perhaps colored.

Text scrolled across the chair ad on the pillar: “Designed by the famed artist Antonio Skaarsgard! Press your thumb to the screen now to have the blueprints sent to your furniture unit! The chair will be designed and molded by the time you get home!”

General Mitchell reached out and punched the vid-screen with his bare hand, cracking it and leaving a few drops of blood on the glass. The screen shut off.

“The Proving is your opportunity to pay respect to the alliance,” Seamus continued with a shaky voice, reciting from memory. All of it memorized, all of it practiced alone in his room while everyone else was out on the previous night celebrating Carnivale. “The Proving is your opportunity to experience Earth outside of the protection of the Xenoshields. When you return successful, your names will be displayed proudly on the Public News Network and again during next year’s Carnivale.”

“Along with a hundred others going through the exact same thing today all over the planet,” the Persian girl muttered. Cleopatra Kashani. Eighteen years old. Failed the Proving when she was thirteen, though it had not been her fault. Last semester, she received three A’s in engineering and one C in Communications. Seamus had all of this memorized, though the low grade in Communications he could have guessed.

The elder Spartan glared at her but said nothing. The clans disciplined only their own — that was a rule.

Seamus cleared his throat. He was aware that he was clearing his throat too much but it was a habit he’d picked up from his father and being nervous only seemed to make it worse. “When your Proving is finished, the New Adults will transition to careers and will reconvene once every year. The Young Adults,” he nodded to the thirteen-year-olds, “will enter secondary school and begin studying a specialty. When they finish, they will go through their second Proving. Every Proving is unique. Every Coterie is unique.” He waved a hand to them to signify that they were now bonded as a group. “You will be expected to form a bond with your Coterie, and in the future when humanity needs your help, you will be expected to serve the people.”

“Yeah, like fixing an old malfunctioning power line,” said Cleo.

“Let’s get going,” said the elder Spartan, throwing daggers with his eyes in the direction of the Persian girl.

“As you wish.” Seamus waved his hand to the Tumbler waiting on the track. The armored transport vehicle had arrived shortly after the members of Clan Sparta; General Mitchell had seemed on edge, as if he might feel better inside it rather than on the platform. Seamus understood well enough: the Spartan didn’t like open, empty spaces. They were unnatural in a modern city.

“Who inspected the vehicle?” the elder Spartan asked the Athenian parents.

“One member of every clan —” Seamus began.

“I wasn’t asking you,” the elder Spartan barked. The others didn’t move. General Mitchell looked at them all, grating his teeth from side to side.

“The upkeep logs are on file,” said the Athenian father in a calm voice. “And of course you have access, General.”

Seamus felt a tingle of worry. It was a bold thing to say to General Mitchell. The man was known for his temper. It wasn’t stated explicitly in any official History, but the details of incidents — a tribunal here, a punishment there — led any close reader to the same conclusion.

General Mitchell’s face reddened. “So. Go ahead then.”

The Coterie filed in. Seamus took up the rear, watching the interactions and making note. It would most likely be struck from the official record — not important to the mission — but the interactions between clan parents and children were always so . . . interesting. Most clan couples who wanted kids were expected to choose in-vitro adoption. The adoptive mother would carry an embryo resulting from the union of sperm and egg from the Gamete Bank, a storehouse of genetic material that had been harvested from those who’d performed exemplary service to their clan. As such, there were few freeborn clan children. In this way, the clans could maximize their chances of successful — intelligent, creative, athletic, brave — offspring.

So it had been since the end of the Clan Wars, when Parliament set down laws forbidding genetic enhancements.

The Persians went in first. The Athenians went in next, giving each of their parents a hug. The young Spartan boy saw the interaction and seemed ready to go in for a hug with his own father, but his father simply reached out and gave him a push toward the Tumbler. The general stopped his daughter, putting a hand on her shoulder, making a point of not touching her curly red hair. She looked up at him. Her left eye was slightly crossed, Seamus noted. A sign of weakness for a Spartan — no, no, that was speculation. Strike it.

“Do not fail again,” Mitchell said in a low voice.

The words stunned Seamus. The Spartans trained as warriors and the parents were generally stoic, but the traditional farewell was “Bring us honor.” It was a coded “good luck” that went back to the Specter invasion and evolved from a more traditional “be safe” that certain militaries had adopted, back when geographical lines were drawn on maps to denote different countries.

Double interesting: General Worthington Mitchell was a decorated soldier. He was married to Luanne Martin, another decorated soldier. Both had completed missions beyond the shield and served Parliament with aplomb. They could have had a freeborn child. They chose in-vitro fertilization instead.

Perhaps it was easier to distance oneself from a child if the child wasn’t of the same bloodline. Perhaps General Mitchell was afraid. Yes, afraid. Afraid that if they were his own children — of his blood and DNA — then he might not be so willing to let them risk their lives. He might, perhaps, react in the same way that the Athenian parents reacted.

Or perhaps General Mitchell simply resented the clan mandate that all couples produce offspring. Speculation. Strike it.

Athenian parents often formed a stronger bond with their offspring. It was as close to a fact as a general observation could be. Seamus had seen it before, during his training. Athenian parents could look beyond the DNA, perhaps because they spent so much time better understanding the role of nature vs. nurture.

Conjecture. Strike it.

Seamus stood beside the Tumbler, unable to fight the urge to glance over the concrete platform. The armored vehicle’s wheels were tucked underneath the undercarriage. It was floating, engaging the mag-rail system just like a train. The military-grade vehicle was made of black blast-proof panels and looked a bit to Seamus like a Sphinx with its arms forward and a head that had been carved away by centuries of heavy wind, replaced by a violently angular windshield.

The vehicle had been developed with input from all the clans. Clan Sparta, of course, was in charge of the weapons system. Clan Athens designed the interior — including a small built-in med bay. Clan Persia was responsible for the technology. Parliament — led by free citizens — approved and funded it. Tumblers could travel along any of the fourteen mag-rails that led out of the city. They were often used to travel to remote automated farming outposts. They could also be deployed for emergency rescue missions when someone was foolish enough to leave the safety of the city’s shields.

Or fixing old downed power lines, as the Persian girl so callously mentioned. She was right, to some extent — the shields protecting Earth’s cities had held for over a hundred years without incident. Provings were mostly a ritual now, and a Coterie might be expected to come together once — years later — to perform some routine upkeep mission in service to Parliament.

But today’s Proving was not quite so random as one might think. While Seamus could not share it with the Coterie, this mission had been chosen specifically for the Parliamentarian’s son, Gabriel. The boy came from an important family, and expectations were high. It had been General Mitchell who had recommended his daughter’s Coterie, and the Athenian parents of Benjamin had agreed. The parents of Cleo . . . well, they hadn’t said no. So it had been arranged in secret to avoid any hint of a scandal. Premier Martinez could rest assured that her son and daughter would be protected by a competent Coterie, on a mission that carried minimal risk.

It was Seamus’s opinion that while this wasn’t very fair, it was entirely reasonable. The premier’s son was special, after all.

And the poor free citizen who’d been with Skye, Cleo and Ben on that fateful Proving five years ago? Transferred. Shipped to another city, thus giving the premier an excuse to arrange for her son to join this new Coterie.

“Go along, Historian.”

The voice of the elder Spartan caused Seamus to flinch. He decided it would be best to not turn and look at the man again — that would only unnerve Seamus further. Already his mind was cycling through different Provings that he had researched. Incidents. Clashes. Failures. Coteries lost outside the city Xenoshield limits. Coteries happening upon Specters. Provings were not always safe . . . and that was the point. The world was not safe; no matter how many shields protected cities.

The Ring orbited Earth, watching and waiting. Specters hunted under the cover of night like ghosts searching for a permanent resting place. For thousands of years, human societies have imagined ghosts. The breath that escapes one’s mouth on a cold day was once seen as proof of an ethereal soul. Where once human beings spoke of demons and spirits, now they spoke only of the real ones: Specters. Creatures who could pass through your body and steal your life from you, leaving only a wrinkled, gray husk behind.

It occurred to Seamus that he didn’t really want to do this.

But it was too late.

Chapter 6: Gabriel Martinez

Parliament

Ghosts are among us, Gabriel’s grandfather always said. Life and death are so intertwined that it’s sometimes impossible to tell the difference. When exactly, is a creature dead? When its heart stops beating? When its brain stops functioning? When the beetles have picked its bones clean? Death provides for life.

And of course life carries the certainty of death.

He reached over and double-checked his little sister’s straps. Wei wrinkled her nose at him. “I’m fine, Gabe. Don’t be embarrassing!”

“OK, OK,” he said, leaning back in his seat, feeling the Tumbler gently tilt as it followed a curve in the mag-rail track. He adjusted his smartglasses again. They felt light on the bridge of his nose. Cleo had passed them out without explanation, saying only that the glasses didn’t come in a variety of fashion styles. She’d looked at Gabriel when she said this.

Across from him, the two siblings from Clan Athens watched him. Dim track lights ran along the edges of the ceiling, illuminating the Tumbler’s cramped personnel compartment and the electronics on the walls. It was an advanced machine, so complicated that Gabriel dared not touch a single thing. He was totally, completely, without a doubt out of his element here.

“Just leave it up to the clans,” he murmured, remembering what his parents had told him.

“What?”

He turned to Wei. She looked so cute, strapped into a seat that was clearly designed for someone much taller. Her legs dangled. Her Ecosuit was a stark contrast from her usual white dresses. Women in Parliament were wearing white dresses a lot now, and Wei was copying the style, usually by threading her own needle and modifying dresses she could find at the consignment shop on the fifth floor of their apartment building.

Now, Gabriel wouldn’t say it bugged him that she shopped there — far be it for him to judge a citizen for reusing old clothing! — but as the child of two famous Parliamentarians, Wei did have a certain responsibility to maintain a level of respectability in public.

Not that she cared much.

It would have been a bigger issue if she wasn’t so good at sewing wonderful clothes. Where some might pay a few credits to send their secondhand clothes to a modification factory, Wei did it all herself.

Naturally, her Ecosuit had to be modified as well. Sometime during the week, she’d found the time to carefully embroider black stars onto her white half-cape that hung from her left shoulder. She’d also done it to Gabriel’s suit, too, without his knowledge. As if they didn’t already stand out enough among the clan members, now they had decorative capes. Useless relics of antiquity.

“You’re mumbling to yourself,” Wei told him in a quiet voice.

He raised his eyebrows. “And?”

Wei shrugged. “Mother told you to stop doing that.” She wiggled her dangling legs. “This seat is soooo uncomfortable.”

Gabriel leaned forward and looked left, toward the front of the Tumbler. Both of the representatives from Clan Persia were sitting at the complicated-looking control panels located just behind the two driver’s seats. The older girl — Cleo — had brought up a map of the city on her holoscreen and was using her fingers to spin it slowly like a pinwheel. The young boy looked to be playing some kind of game.

In the front were the two Spartans, sitting in the driver’s seats with their backs to everyone else, just like Clan Sparta liked it. Through the blast-proof windshield, Gabriel could see a light at the end of the tunnel, which meant they were near the western district of Neo Berlin. Beyond the western district were the two- and three-story houses belonging to those who chose to work and rise through the ranks in whatever industry/culture/profession they chose. Free citizens and clan leaders alike. Beyond that: factories. Beyond that: the outskirts, full of experimental Athenian farms and Clan Persia robotics testing centers and Clan Sparta training facilities.

“Here we go,” Gabriel said. He reached out and dramatically grabbed his sister’s arm. “Exit tunnel . . . now!”

Sunlight streamed in through the windshield. The mag-rail ascended, rising up over the small buildings below, cutting through a vast, hilly neighborhood on the western edge of the city proper. A temporary feeling of warmth rushed through Gabriel’s body. Here was the best of their world. Everyone received a monthly Basic Income regardless of what they did with their lives, but here were the people who’d made the decision to go out and be the best at something. Artists. Bakers. Welders. Clan scientists, soldiers and engineers. Doctors. Mechanics. Musicians. Cryo-techs. Robotics testers.

This was worth protecting. This world.

The western district of the city was so vast, so beautiful, that it was hard to catch your breath. Rolling hills lined with houses and crescent-shaped buildings and squat factories whose exteriors were lined with decorative art installations. Double helixes. Towering warriors. Abstract asterisks.

It was easy to ignore the VR cannons lining the city limits.

Wei held Gabriel’s hand. The Tumbler was moving faster now, cruising through the western district and toward the mountains that formed a jagged horizon. They passed two Clan Athens research campuses. Each campus was a cluster of unique architectural wonders, all sharp corners and tall windows; one campus on either side of the mag-lev track. Then there were more small homes belonging to a variety of professionals and management-types who could afford little front lawns. Small markets and specialty shops sat near the busiest streets. They were the types of shops that catered to those who clung to an era of the past, before most food could be automatically processed at home and most material items could either be designed by printing machines or simply delivered to your doorstop within an hour.

An era before Phenocyte reactors provided unlimited power.

And that, in Gabriel’s mind, was the biggest danger humanity faced now. Not the Specters — the Specters were just an annoyance. The Specters were kept at bay by the shields and eventually, they would all be destroyed. But unlimited energy? That was something else entirely. It meant limitless innovation. It meant constantly monitoring new inventions and making crucial decisions.

What are the benefits?

What are the consequences?

How far is too far?

The Athenian named Ben pointed to Gabriel’s left. “Um . . . should we answer that?”

Gabriel turned. The young Persian named Reza had his arms up in the air, his game blocked by a green box that read INCOMING MESSAGE in big letters. “What’s the deal?” he whined.

Cleo spun in her chair. “That means game time is over. Accept the message already!”

Reza hesitantly tapped the green ACCEPT button on the screen. The green box was replaced with the image of a middle-aged woman with green eyes and glossy brown shoulder-length hair. She was wearing a white dress with a beautiful flowery hem.

“Mom!” Wei said excitedly.

“Good morning, Coterie.” Carmen’s eyes panned the inside of the Tumbler. She could see all of them, Gabriel realized, and he fought the urge to wave. His little sister did not. Carmen smiled, then looked left, maybe to check and make sure the Spartans were the ones behind the wheel and not anyone else. The Spartans were the only ones trained to drive Tumblers and any other military vehicles. One of their clan’s “perks.”

Satisfied, Carmen continued: “In a few minutes, you will be traveling outside the Xenoshield that protects our city. Your Tumbler’s own shield system will activate automatically, but it won’t be strong enough to withstand a substantial Specter attack. Your Proving will take you into the Akishi mountain range. I’m sending you the coordinates now.”

A little red blip appeared on Cleo’s holoscreen map. “What is it?” she asked, turning back to the monitor.

“That,” Carmen said, “is the location of an emergency supply depot.”

Cleo gave her brother a knowing look. Gabriel wondered what it meant.

“The depot contains everything needed for survival outside the shield, including food, water, and a small solar power array to charge personal shield batteries,” Carmen said. “It also contains more than one thousand spare parts for the automated farming machines.”

“So what do we need to do there?” Cleo asked. “Grease the wheels or something like that?”

“Shut up and she’ll tell you,” snapped the Spartan, Skye.

Carmen looked around the interior of the Tumbler. Gabriel knew that look. She was waiting for them to get it out of their system. They were kids, through and through. That was exactly what she was thinking — she hated the Proving and was vocal about it. She hated the idea that kids had to grow up so fast, especially when the Xenoshields were so effective at keeping Specters away from civilization. What remained of civilization, at least.

But if the great Carmen Martinez’s son and daughter skipped the Proving? That would be a scandal that would ruin their family. And as much as she hated the Proving, Carmen loved being in power. Gabriel knew it, and Carmen knew her son knew it.

“We have identified a circuit malfunction in the depot’s solar array. Your Coterie’s mission,” she finally said in a slow, deliberately soft tone, “is to troubleshoot the malfunction and repair it. Once the supply depot’s emergency functions are back online, you will return.”

“That’s it?” Cleo shrugged, giving her brother that same look. “Seems like a cake walk. Now I’m excited.”

Carmen paused again. “This morning, Clan Persia detected an ice collision on the innermost section of the Ring. The resulting energy flare has caused satellite malfunctions in the northern hemisphere. You’ll have no satellite assistance for this mission. You are ordered to abort the mission if you believe the safety of your Coterie is threatened. You will not fail the Proving if this happens.”

“How long will the blackout last?” Ben asked.

“Indeterminate. The energy flare is being analyzed as we speak. As soon as orbital satellites are back up and running, I will establish a direct link and assess your progress.”

“So what the heck happened at the depot?” Cleo asked. “I mean, you’ve gotta have some idea. Did the heat signature drop first or did the station stop pinging? Because if the station stopped pinging, that means there’s a data issue . . .”

“We know little else,” Carmen answered. “We did not have time to assess the damage before the energy flare.”

Gabriel felt a strange chill run down his spine. The emergency supply depot stopped functioning right when the Ring was close enough to temporarily disable the planetary satellite array?

Coincidence. That’s all it was. This nervousness was because of his grandpa’s stories. His grandpa’s stories never had coincidences. Everything had purpose. But the Specters were mindless creatures. Not ghosts. Ghosts always had purpose in Grandpa’s old stories. They were either haunting their enemies or searching for justice or waiting restlessly for closure with loved ones.

“Historian.” Carmen’s eyes turned. “Thirty seconds of blackout.”

Gabriel turned to Seamus, who was sitting across the aisle beside the Athenian girl, Tahlia. Seamus simply nodded.

A black band appeared underneath Carmen’s holo-image with the word REDACTED repeated in an infinite loop. She looked around again, her eyes stopping on Gabriel. “These are less than ideal circumstances, but rescheduling your Proving would have been a political nightmare for myself and General Mitchell of Clan Sparta. If there is any danger whatsoever, you will return to the city. Understood, Spartan Mitchell?”

“Yes, Premier Martinez,” Skye said in a low voice, not turning around.

“Good luck to you all,” Carmen said. Her eyes turned, finding Gabriel and Wei. “Be strong.”

Her image disappeared. The Persian boy’s video game returned, asking him if he wanted to buy a new magical staff for his wizard character. Reza very casually clicked “Yes.”

“So . . .” Cleo raised a finger, swiveling in her chair. She looked at Gabriel. “Wasn’t that your mom, dasher?”

Gabriel frowned, angry. “Is that the new hip word all the clan brats are using? Dasher?”

Cleo shrugged. “It fits.”

“It’s a slang term for a trendy individual,” the Historian pointed out. “It isn’t actually new. Slang words tend to disappear and then pop up again over time.”

“Maybe I should just use dude,” Cleo offered. “That pops up often enough for a free citizen to recognize.” She crossed her legs. She looked to Gabriel like a child. And she’d tampered with her Ecosuit! She’d switched out the boots for something uglier, with heavy treads on the soles.

“Did you toss your sanctioned boots?” Gabriel asked, pointing to her feet. He turned to the Historian, who had his head slightly tilted to avoid bumping into the handful of steel storage cabinets and medical devices that lined the wall above him. “I want that officially recorded. Including her attitude.”

Cleo made a raspberry sound with her tongue. “Ease up, government boy. All I was doing was asking if that really was your mom. I don’t see why you went all rage-master on me.”

“Yeah,” Wei chimed in. Gabriel turned to her, giving her the stink eye.

“We’re almost at the end of the mag-track,” the Spartan girl announced. “Detaching in just under a minute.”

Cleo turned back to her console. “I’ve downloaded the coordinates. All we gotta do is follow the blue line all the way to the station. This is gonna be so easy. I bet it’s the solar array’s photovoltaic heat dispersal. I practically majored in photovoltaics!”

“Detaching in thirty seconds,” the Spartan girl announced. Gabriel leaned in to watch. She had both hands underneath the glass piloting console, tucked inside a small compartment, her hands clutching twin joysticks. Gabriel was sure there was a more technical term for it, but the steering contraption looked eerily similar to a game that might be found at a virtuarcade.

“Watch,” Gabriel told Wei. “This is going to be neat.”

Ahead was the farthest western train station and just beyond that: the end of the tracks, punctuated with a yellow barrier composed of rubber and massive springs designed to absorb the impact of any wayward trains. But as the Tumbler surged forward, the rubber barrier began to slowly descend. Beyond it was a concrete frontage road leading out between the last few squat robotics factory buildings. Beyond those were essential GMO crops — soy, corn, hemp — undergoing testing by Clan Athens. Little white towers loomed over the corn stalks.

“What are those?” Wei asked, pointing to one of the towers.

“Bee hives,” Gabriel answered. “They pollinate the Athenian fruit trees in the parks.”

“They pollinate everything,” Tahlia said. “We use a slightly modified breed of apis mellifera. They dance to communicate!”

“They’re pretty awesome,” Cleo added. “We built these little machines that can transport the hives to the crops beyond the Xenoshield.”

Beyond the crops were the VR guns. Each one was the size of an autotaxi, aimed out at the tree-covered hills beyond the Xenoshield, laid out in a neat row along the invisible perimeter.

“Detaching!” Skye shouted. Beneath their feet, they could feel the Tumbler’s heavy wheels lock into place. The mag-lev deactivated and the Tumbler’s wheels hit the concrete. The vehicle jolted slightly and slowed a moment, then sped up as Skye’s little brother tapped his finger on the glass command console.

They passed the experimental corn crops and beehive towers. Gabriel watched through the windshield, remembering the lines of an ancient poem:

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.

But when the bath was filled, we found a fur,

a rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.

They passed rows of soy, passed a handful of old warehouse buildings with broken windows and burnt-out digital ad screens sitting on top of the roofs. Beyond the abandoned buildings were fresh meadows of green grass and tall trees with fat canopies of leaves, interspersed with a few small Clan Athens animal testing labs made of dark gray concrete.

Finally, they passed the last Clan Sparta outpost: two steel bunkers each equipped with double VR cannons aimed in the direction of the mountains.

Red lights flashed on the ceiling above Gabriel. He looked up, feeling his heart quicken its pace.

“Warning,” came a concerned female voice. “Leaving the Safe Zone. Warning. Leaving the Safe Zone.”

“Just shut that off,” Skye said over her shoulder.

Cleo pulled up a list of commands on her holoscreen, shutting off the warning system.

“Are we out?” Wei asked, grabbing Gabriel’s arm. “Are we not safe anymore?”

“Just wait a moment,” Gabriel said. “You’ll know.”

The Tumbler slowed, then rocked on its suspensions as it reached the other side of the Xenoshield. Just like that, they were in a different world. The road wasn’t quite as smooth. The grass grew tall and wild. There were signs of civilization, long ago abandoned. Vegetation overtook old homes that had belonged to a suburb; weeds ripped apart wooden paneling and slipped out of holes in the windows. Where a small commercial district had once been, it was now a forest, the tall ash and slender birch trees overwhelming the old buildings.

“What’s that?” Wei asked, pointing to a long building on the right of the road. Trees were bursting through the old concrete like a plague.

“That’s where they used to raise animals,” Ben explained gently. “Thousands and thousands of animals. When it was abandoned, the wind started carrying dirt and seeds inside the building through the broken windows. Trees started growing. Now it looks like that.”

“Wow,” Wei said, pursing her lips. Her eyes were wide in amazement. Gabriel liked that she was curious, not scared. They didn’t know the others in this Coterie. He’d been transferred for some reason beyond his control and now he was here among strangers. The last thing he needed was for Wei to embarrass him. As childish as it was, he couldn’t help but want to make a good impression. For his sake and for his mother’s sake.

The Tumbler shook. Skye reached up on the console and pressed one of the glowing buttons. Under their feet, the engine took on a distinct rumbling sound.

“What’s that noise?” Wei asked, her legs swinging.

“I don’t know,” Gabriel said. “But the Spartan knows what she’s doing.”

The Tumbler bounced again, then picked up speed. Gabriel looked out the front window, watching massive fields of grain and corn and soy pass them by. In each of the fields were a handful of car-sized machines on tall, thin black wheels, moving between the rows.

“What are those?” Wei asked.

“Our saviors,” said the Persian girl. She swiveled in her chair to watch as they passed a massive field of soy. There was a machine near the road, reaching down with five human-like arms of steel, running its black fingers between the green soy leaves. It reminded Gabriel of a spider, only someone had had the foresight to give the machine a purple paintjob and a quaint little digital face whose eyes watched the arms with an excited expression. “They’re picking soybean aphids. Right, Athens? Or are they picking beetles?”

Ben frowned. “Uh, I don’t remember . . .”

“It’s both,” his little sister answered. She sat up straighter in her chair, thumbs hooking the straps. “This time of year, it might be a number of potential pests. The aphids are a descendant of the aphis glycines, and they can usually be controlled by introducing a predator. But beetles feed on the stems, so they can pose a big threat.”

“That’s right!” said Ben. He reached over and ruffled his sister’s hair. “Oftentimes the larvae will feed on the nitrogen-fixing nodules —”

“All right, all right,” Cleo said. “She didn’t ask for a scientific breakdown, professor.”

Ben’s mouth hung open for a moment. Gabriel smiled. The Athenian boy seemed awkward, a little unsure of what to make of the rude Persian girl or how to react. Come to think of it, Gabriel wasn’t sure how to react to her, either. It was clear that Cleo had more than a hint of antagonistic tendencies in her DNA.

They sat for a while in silence with only the Tumbler’s engine humming beneath their feet. Finally, Cleo pulled up a colorful program on her holoscreen, pecking at floating white hologram buttons with her index finger. Through the same overhead speakers that had issued the shield warning came crunching guitars and sonic thumps. Thankfully, she was kind enough to keep the volume at a reasonably low level — but still . . . the music was grating. It wasn’t what Gabriel would normally consider “music” at all. More like a construction site overwhelmed by minstrels.

“I hope none of you mind disco-metal,” Cleo said with a smile. “It’s a passion of mine.”

Skye looked over her shoulder, frowning but saying nothing. Ben shifted in his seat, scratching at his receding hairline. “Um, did you compose this music yourself?”

Cleo laughed. “As if I could compose music this good!”

Gabriel turned to the Historian, who was watching with a blank expression. No doubt recording all of it. Gabriel wondered if he should say something about the noise, just so it would go in the record. He didn’t want to, but he knew that showing maturity would make his mother happy. Not to mention just about everyone else in Parliament.

Damn them. Why did they have such high hopes for him? Just because his mother and father contributed so much . . . what, was he destined to do great things? Was he guaranteed a place in Parliament when he came of age?

Well, yes. The voting process was democratic in the purest form: everyone — free citizens and clan members alike — had a vote, and only the candidates themselves could speak on behalf of their campaign. For some, that was a challenge. For Gabriel, all it would take was for him to stand in front of a crowd and mention his surname. The crowd would go wild. They would elect him in a landslide.

And then they would expect greatness from him.

“We’re coming up on the Sarkeesian Wildlife Corridor,” Cleo said excitedly. “This is going to be real cool, you guys. Watch!”

Everyone leaned in to look out the windshield. Ahead, the horizon seemed to roll over the road, creating a long bridge of earth held up by narrow concrete support structures. Long blades of grass billowed in the breeze, bringing the bridge to life.

“What is it?” Wei asked. Gabriel turned to the Historian.

Seamus cleared his throat. “Before the Specter attack, humanity did its best to coexist with nature. Wildlife corridors allowed wildlife to traverse busy roads without crossing them.”

“It’s an animal bridge!” Wei said excitedly. They passed underneath it, through a dark tunnel illuminated by the Tumbler’s bluish headlights. Gabriel imagined what it must have been like, driving and seeing a herd of deer crossing the grassy bridge above the road. It was probably beautiful. People no doubt stopped and took pictures, preserving memories so they could show friends. Look, a herd of deer, grazing right above us! Look, a wild ostrich!

Or maybe people got so used to it that they didn’t even notice after a while.

They emerged from the tunnel, passing an old sign that warned drivers to slow down. Its red paint was faded almost to the point of obscurity. Green vines crawled up the metal post.

“What’s that?” Wei asked, sitting up straighter so she could point to a wide building coming up on the left side of the road.

Gabriel squinted. “That . . . I think I know what that is.”

The building was black, cracked and splintered in places and crumbling in others. It looked damaged . . . not abandoned. Destroyed.

Skye slowed the vehicle as it got closer. Behind the large building were hundreds of smaller structures, each one blackened and charred, the concrete crumbling apart like delicate crumbs of chocolate cake. Tall, leafy plants with fat, green stalks grew near the buildings but kept their distance, as if hesitant. Maple trees seemed to lean away from the black structures.

They moved past it. Old Spartan cannons sat abandoned and rusting amidst thick bushes with heavy, arm-length green leaves. Not VR cannons, either . . . real cannons, the kind that fired explosive ordnance written about in History books.

“Jericho,” Cleo announced, bringing up a schematic of the city on her holoscreen.

“I can’t see it,” Wei said, peering around Gabriel to get a better look at Cleo’s console.

The Persian cackled. “I’ll take care of that. Just keep watching through the windshield.”

They did. And as they grew closer, the cityscape shimmered, changing, growing, the ruins replaced by ancient architecture. Squat, stone structures. An aqueduct trailing toward the mountains. A wall, built, torn down, built again. The structures collapsed and were replaced with smaller dwellings and holy churches with grand architecture that seemed to impress the Athenian named Ben, who leaned in his seat with his mouth agape. The holy sites collapsed, replaced by smaller homes. Another wall went up. Three skyscrapers emerged, and slowly all of the homes were replaced with rectangular housing units. The image shimmered again. The ancient wall slowly crumbled. More modern-looking squat buildings replaced the skyscrapers. Gabriel recognized this era. It was when the nearby mineral mine was expended, causing a mass migration to Neo Berlin and turning Jericho into nothing more than a tourist trap. A place where vacationers could marvel at a few carefully preserved relics.

The mirage flickered again, then collapsed, revealing the modern ruins. “Crud,” Cleo murmured. “Clan Persia is, uh, still working the kinks out of this new visual augmentation program, but you get the picture.”

Gabriel recited an ancient poem from memory: “The fighting man shall from the sun . . . take warmth, and life from glowing earth; speed with the light-foot winds to run . . . and with the trees to newer birth; and find, when fighting shall be done, great rest, and fullness after dearth.”

They were silent a moment, staring out at what remained of the town.

“One hundred thirty years ago,” said the Historian, “after three long years of fighting, this ancient town became Neo Berlin’s last hope. The city was nearly free of Specters, destroyed by first-generation proton weapons developed by Clan Persia. The Xenoshield was only days from completion, but it had undergone numerous setbacks. But to the west, more than ten thousand Specters were moving through the mountain range like a herd of animals, drawn to the human life in Neo Berlin. Beyond the mountains, the city of Lavinth was already wiped out.”

“What happened?” asked the younger Athenian named Tahlia. She leaned forward in her seat to watch the blackened buildings pass. All of the Young Adults did the same, anxious to get a better look through the windshield. Wei’s hand pressed down painfully hard on Gabriel’s knee as she craned her head.

“A small contingent of Clan Sparta burned the town,” the Historian said. Despite the Historians’ typical mellow nature, Gabriel couldn’t help but notice Seamus seemed to enjoy having an audience. He leaned forward, just a bit. His eyes widened, just a bit. “The fires attracted the approaching horde of Specters. Clan Sparta, led by Captain Jonathon Holt, initiated a counterattack in the early morning hours of the first day. They fought valiantly with only a few prototype VR rifles that had been constructed the previous week. At daylight, the Specters went underground.”

“Why did they go underground?” Wei asked.

“We don’t know. Uh, they almost always go underground during the day,” Ben said, glancing at Gabriel. Gabriel was taken aback by the look: it was downright suspicious! Did the Athenian not trust him for some reason? Or was it something else?

“Let the nerd finish,” said Cleo.

The Historian cleared his throat. Sunlight streaming in through the windshield spread over his face, causing his eyes to squint. “Jonathon Holt marked one hundred and fifty-three Specter positions using chunks of brick from the buildings. At dusk, the Specters rose. One hundred and fifty-three were destroyed. The Spartans fought through the night again. The Specters were speculated to have used damaged buildings as cover, the better to hunt their prey. The Spartans engaged in guerilla tactics . . .”

“Wait. Hold on.” Cleo made a T with her hands. “You’re a freaking Historian and you sound like you’re reading from a script. This is one of the coolest History stories ever — ever! — and you’re butchering it!”

The Historian’s jaw dropped. Wei and the Persian boy giggled.

Be diplomatic, a voice in Gabriel’s head told him. For posterity. “It sounded fine to me.”

“It was boring. Bo-ring. Listen.” Cleo unstrapped her belt and stood up, grabbing the safety bar above the Tumbler’s side door. “OK, so it’s the second night. There are still thousands of Specters left! And we’re not talking about just those simple lizard-looking Specters, either. There’s a bunch of those insect-looking things, too. The Manteidos. Imagine that for a minute, kids. Ghosts! Ghosts swarming you from every direction! Not the happy little ghosts from bedtime stories, either. These are freaking monsters! Giant lizards and insects!”

“Um . . . is this too scary for them?” Ben asked. His little sister pinched his hand. “Ow!”

“Right, so the Spartans’ rifle batteries are running out. Some of them don’t even have first-gen proton pistols because they were still so scarce. They don’t have any shields, remember, cause that technology was so new it wasn’t even in mass production yet. The fires they set are going out by the second evening and these Specters aren’t all that interested anymore. They’re drawn to the city. All those juicy, delicious people, you know? So Jonathon Holt gets an idea.”

“Does he run?” asked Wei.

“Does he use a bomb?” asked Tahlia.

Cleo shook her head sadly. A strand of black hair fell over her eye; she pulled it behind her ear with an annoyed look. “Holt called in reinforcements. Finally! See, most Spartans are really cocky and pig-headed. But General Holt knew he’d need help and he had Clan Persia waiting. Now he called them, and with the help of the Persians, they fought back the Specters. Again. Daybreak never looked so beautiful!”

“There were also some Athenians,” Ben pointed out. “We provided medical service.”

A scoff came from the driver’s seat. Skye may have had her back to them but she was clearly listening.

Cleo continued: “On the third afternoon, they finally get the call: the Xenoshield generator is finished. All General Holt has to do is hold out until it can be started up. So the Persians make a strategic retreat toward the city, taking every meter of fencing wire they find along the way. They’ve got an idea. It won’t stop the Specters, but it might just slow them down. How am I doing so far, Historian?”

“Vaguely accurate,” Seamus answered, failing to hide his frustration. He wasn’t like the older Historians who wandered around the Parliament building. He was young; still in training. It was strange — the Historians sometimes didn’t seem like human beings at all. They were these other people with one specific task: to preserve humanity’s history. They ignored praise. They ignored criticism.

But they were still human. And Gabriel felt just a little sorry for this one, who had to watch an energetic clan member usurp his purpose.

“He’s being cranky,” Cleo assured the young ones. “I’m doing great. Where was I? OK! So Holt and his people had to make one last stand. They’d already worked through the day, so some of them are crazy tired. Dudes and dudettes are dropping like flies, passing out with exhaustion, hunted down by Specters closing in on their positions.”

“What’s a dudette?” Tahlia asked, politely raising her hand.

“A neat chick. OK? OK. So the sun sets again. The Specters emerge from the ground, hungry for humans.”

“They were eating people?” Wei asked, grabbing Gabriel’s hand.

“Oh! No, no,” Ben said. “Their ethereal form passes through you and initiates a chain reaction at the cellular level — what I mean is they just sort of shut you down. They’re a complex combination of electrons and ecto-energy that —”

“They’re ghosts,” Cleo interrupted. “And our VR guns kill them. That’s all you need to know. So Holt and the brainiacs in Clan Persia had an idea: why not use the same technology in the proton weapons and spread it out? It was the only idea they had left. It had to work. And so at midnight, they began retreating, losing warriors left and right as the Specters started overwhelming the Spartan flanks. Clan Athens doesn’t think the Specters are intelligent but I bet they knew exactly what they were doing, you know? Hiding behind buildings is smart, my friends. And that’s exactly what the Specters did.”

“We don’t know their mental capabilities,” Ben said, “because we’re restricted from studying them inside the city limits. But given their structure, they probably have similar cognitive functions as the jellyfish.”

“OK, well, that doesn’t matter,” Cleo said, “because by one in the morning, things are dire. The last of the Spartans had retreated southeast of Jericho. VR rifles were firing nonstop! Pow! Pow! Pow-pow! Specters were sizzling to dust! But there were too many. It was time to power up their last resort.”

“Were they scared?” Wei asked, eyes wide. Gabriel smiled. Seeing her so excited made him happy. Maybe she was cut out for a destiny a little more adventurous than a Parliamentary forum.

“No,” the Spartan girl answered from the driver’s seat.

“Maybe a little,” Cleo said. She thought about it for a moment, glancing up at the ceiling. “Come to think of it, they were definitely scared. They thought they were all gonna die! But they had their secret plan: the wire fence, stretched right across a cornfield, with one end connected to the salvaged VR cannon batteries. This was it. No more energy cells. No more weapons. Just one last stand against an alien threat on the verge of overwhelming our great city. The warriors waited in the cornfield, surrounded by some of the only food the city had left for synthetic processing. Boy-oh-boy, you can only imagine what was going through their minds.”

“Wow . . .” Reza whispered. The Persian boy had abandoned his video game and swiveled his seat to watch his sister.

“Suddenly, there came a call!” All of the Young Adults flinched when Cleo raised her voice. “It was time. The Specters had reached the fence. With one shaky hand, General Holt switched on the makeshift electric current. Whoooosh! The wires began to burn a bright blue. Specters touched it . . . and were instantly vaporized! Hundreds of them attacked the fence, vaporizing one by one, draining the batteries a little bit each time. The humans had to retreat, and do it as quick as possible. They ran back toward Neo Berlin, pursued by the last thousand or so Specters . . .

“Suddenly, General Holt’s comm started ringing. He answered it. It was someone from the city — they were powering up the Xenoshield! General Holt ordered everyone to run faster. All they had to do was get to the western edge of the city limits and they would be safe! Maybe. Hopefully.”

“Were they out of breath?” Wei asked. “They’ve been running so long . . .”

“They were fine,” the Spartan girl answered briskly.

“Heck yes they were out of breath!” Cleo answered. “And totally not ready to die, either! They got to the edge of the city limits, passing through the invisible shield . . . and waited. The Specters approached. Lizard-like Sebecus and insect-like Manteidos, picking out which humans to kill next. General Holt stood like a silent sentry, breathing heavily and watching with some serious butterflies in his stomach. The shield was invisible . . . was it even on at all? No one knew! But they were about to find out.”

She stopped, looking around the compartment, eyes wide. She took a deep breath, smiling wryly. The Young Adults were one hundred percent enraptured by this girl’s story, Gabriel realized. So was he. And she knew it.

“So what happened?!” Wei asked, exasperated.

“Yeah, finish the story, sis!” Reza whined.

Cleo took a deep, solemn breath. “The Specters reached the shield. And stopped. Just inches from General Holt’s face, one of the lizard ghosts stood, just sorta floating an inch above the ground. It turned its head so it could get its gelatinous eye as close as possible, so close that the General could see two pairs of lids blinking. General Holt breathed a sigh of relief. The Specters were finally beaten.”

Chapter 7: Skye Mitchell

Clan Sparta

“Is that really what happened?” asked the little Parliamentarian girl.

There was a moment of silence. Finally, the Historian answered, “More or less.”

General Holt stood like a silent sentry . . . not bad, Persian.

Skye grunted to herself, moving the Tumbler toward the center of the road with the right-hand joystick grip. They were passing the last of the farms that surrounded the old ruins of Jericho — once they were beyond the crops, the road would get worse and she would have to slow down. For now, though, she relished the speed of the vehicle, the gentle hum of the electric engine underneath her feet.

And the view. Earth as it once was. Land most people would never see in their lifetimes. A decayed monument to humanity’s greatest triumph, hidden away in enemy territory.

“Say, Sparty,” Cleo said, hanging over the seat. “Wasn’t General Holt in your lineage?”

Skye frowned. She could smell the Persian’s peppermint gum. “Yes.”

“Boy-oh-boy, that’s weird.” She sat down on the edge of the manual console to Skye’s left. It wasn’t dangerous — not unless both the digital console and Cassidy’s co-piloting systems were both damaged — but it unnerved her nonetheless. “That must be pretty cool, having famous parents from so long ago. Can you imagine being so famous that they freeze your eggs to keep your genes going forever?”

“It is what it is,” she answered. In truth, she could very easily imagine it. To earn enough glory to be considered for genetic reproduction . . . Skye had imagined it more often than she could count.

On the windshield, the Tumbler’s computer indicated the most damaged parts of the road with little red circles. A blue line led her to their destination far ahead, provided by Cassy who sat to her left and was doing his best to identify any additional dangers on or near the road. The computer’s hazard-mapping skills were spotty at best, in Skye’s opinion. They were still hitting some bumps, but Cassidy was doing an admirable job paying attention to the old road and giving her a manageable path. She would tell him so, once the Historian was out of earshot.

“My lineage makes family affairs . . . uncomfortable,” Skye finally added.

“You should count yourself lucky,” Cleo said. “My parents actually had me. Like, they got together the old-fashioned way and made me like our ancestors did thousands and thousands of years ago.”

Skye flashed a temporary look of surprise, then suppressed it. “I didn’t know you were freeborn.”

“Oh yeah. My parents used to be bigshot programmers. Then they got addicted to Mother Earth—you know, that Earth simulation videogame. Then they just fell apart. Like, they gave up on the real world. And guess what? I’m stuck with their genes.”

“Genetics only gets you so far,” Ben pointed out from behind them. “Nurture plays a significant role in development. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to overhear. It’s just that everyone else is asleep.”

Skye smiled. The Athenian was a big softy. Smart, though. And disciplined enough to know to stay in his seat.

“You should yell at them for sleeping,” Cleo told her. “You’re the toughest one here.”

“I’m not the leader,” Skye answered.

“So what? Remember when we were thirteen going through our first Proving? That guy from Clan Sparta was bossing everyone around.”

“And they failed,” Skye reminded her. “We were nearly killed.”

“Yeah, but you saved all our lives when you shot that Specter.”

The comment caught Skye off-guard. Saved them? That wasn’t how her father remembered it. “We make decisions together.”

“Blech.” Cleo hopped off the console. “I just hope you’re still as accurate as you were when you were thirteen — whoa!”

The Tumbler shifted violently, sending the Persian to the floor. She got up, rubbing the palm of her left hand. “Medic!” she shouted.

“What? Really?” Ben asked, unbuckling his belt. Skye watched him in the reflection on the corner of her smartglasses — he had a cute look of concern on his face. “Is it your carpus or metacarpus?”

“Oh, sit down. I’m just kidding.”

Skye turned her eyes back to the road. Don’t even think about crushing on that boy. You’d be the laughingstock of Clan Sparta.

“We’re officially beyond the farm belt,” Skye said. “The road will only get worse from here on out.”

Cleo returned to her console. “We’re off-satellite, too. Totally on our own. Time to panic, if you’re the panicking type.”

“I am,” Ben said in a low voice.

“We’re fine,” Skye said, suppressing an unexpected smile. “We’re only two hours away from the target. Persian, are you picking up any anomalies on the Tumbler’s sensors?”

Cleo slid her finger across the holoscreen, bringing up a 3D image of the area outside of the Tumbler. “This sensor’s for crap. I’m picking up some life, though.”

“Is that normal?” Skye asked over her shoulder. Again, she caught a glance at Ben in the glasses’ reflection. He was fumbling with the seatbelt, trying to get it buckled again. “The right strap is backwards, Athenian.”

Ben’s face reddened. Actually, given that he’d decided to go with a buzz cut, and given that he was already losing hair near his forehead, most of his head reddened. “Thanks.” He flipped the right strap, then buckled in.

“Well, professor?” Cleo asked. “Should I be picking up life readings or not?”

“Oh. Um, sure. You’re probably picking up bees and birds, maybe an emu or two. Specters seem to be most attracted to the negative charge in human bodies, so they ignore most wildlife. Anytime our nervous system sends signals to our brain, it’s using electricity to get the job done. The electric charge jumps from cell to cell, relying on a slight imbalance between potassium and sodium ions. But, uh, we don’t know why the Specters prefer humans . . .”

“My brain is sending me some negative signals right now,” Cleo muttered. “But your explanation is pretty cool, so I’m going to ignore those signals.”

“I don’t see how you could. You don’t have control over those neural impulses.”

“She meant she was going to refrain from insulting you,” Skye said. She used one hand to open up the Mirror program on her command console. A mirror appeared on the center of the windshield glass, partially obstructing her view of the road. Skye touched it with one finger, dragging it down to the bottom of the glass.

Good. Now she could keep an eye on everyone in the Tumbler.

But mainly Ben.

“Oh.” Ben blushed again. “Thank you for not insulting me, Cleo.”

Cleo blew a bubble and smiled. “No problem, professor. Did you get all that, Historian?”

“Seamus.”

“What?”

“My name,” the Historian said slowly from the rear of the vehicle, “is Seamus. And yes, I will remember all of it.”

“Good.”

In the small mirror, Skye saw Cleo grin wider. It was infectious — Skye had to fight the urge to smile, too. They’re not Spartans, so they don’t matter. Just because Cleo had a more bubbly personality than most Persians didn’t mean she was trustworthy.

Trust none of them. Trust the Historian the least.

Another heavy bump. On the console, a small warning appeared, requesting the driver to be aware of the marked road damage.

Stay aware, girl. That’s your job.

She pressed her finger on the touchscreen console, flicking away the warning.

And trust your training. Don’t rely on technology to be your eyes. That was Father’s best advice. That was how you saw that Specter emerge when you were thirteen. You used your ears to pinpoint that eerie moan. You felt the hairs on your neck stand up. You stopped, slipped around one of the tall pines, and spotted the glowing claw coming up out of the ground. That was you. You did that.

She shut off the navigation assistant. The red circles appearing on the windshield disappeared, leaving only open road and a blue line leading them toward the forest on the horizon. Blistered concrete cracked open by freezing water. Potholes caused by long-ago decommissioned transport vehicles. To the left of the road was open grassland with meter-high blades of grass and tall trees with dark gray bark and bright green leaves. To the right of the road was an old abandoned cemetery, the tombstones barely recognizable beneath clustered vines dotted with bright blue flowers. The tombstones rose up on a massive hill in neat rows, like seats in an amphitheater. The ones on top had the largest headstones, rising above the flowery vines. Along the base were crypts, running right up to an old decayed side road.

Another bump. Skye steeled herself and looked forward. The Akashi mountains were spread out across the horizon. A few were tall enough that their peaks were covered with snow. To the north, the mountains were wide and sprawling, lined with squat pine trees. To the south, the mountains rose taller, sharper-looking, as if they’d emerged from the earth more violently.

“You sure you don’t want navigation?” Cassy asked.

Skye nodded. “Just a little practice. Grab the grips.”

He reached underneath his glass console. “These joysticks?”

“Grips. Use the right terminology. There you go. Now keep us on the road.” She felt the grips in her hands move slightly and let go, letting Cassy take over. She looked over at him and smiled. He nervously smiled back.

Another bump. Skye slowed the vehicle by depressing her foot on the manual speed pedal but let Cassy correct the mistake himself, guiding the Tumbler a few degrees right. On the windshield, the blue line disappeared far ahead between a smattering of tall oak trees with stretching limbs. The road was getting worse, blistering so deep in places that thick weeds had taken root. She felt a sick pain in the pit of her stomach. The estimated time to the supply depot had been only two hours — they still weren’t there yet. Every damaged piece of road forced her to slow the Tumbler.

She leaned forward and looked up. The Ring loomed directly overhead, arcing over Earth, curving like some celestial, blood-red rainbow.

They were behind schedule.

Chapter 8: Benjamin Redcloud

Clan Athens

Ben closed his eyes for just a moment, telling himself I will not fall asleep, I will not fall asleep, I will not fall asleep. It was rude. It was unfair to the Spartans, who had to stay awake to drive the Tumbler.

But he’d stayed up so late at Carnivale. Gods, it had been the most fun he’d had at a Carnivale in . . . well, ever. Where some Athenians eschewed the whole thing, Ben’s parents always valued it for what it truly was: a social gathering. An opportunity to foster and strengthen relationships with other clan members and free citizens. Last night, Ben had taken his parents’ ethos to the extreme: he and a group of Athenians had dressed to the nines.

It began early in the evening, when Ben’s small group of friends made the decision not to walk around downtown Neo Berlin admiring people dressed up. That had led to an impromptu visit to a clothing store in the garment district, which had led to Ben very timidly delaying the costume selection process until everyone had snatched up the least outrageous outfits. All that was left was the Blue Ghost: a skull-like mask and a black top hat and a loose-fitting blue jumpsuit with long, flowing blue silks attached along the side. As if that wasn’t enough, the costume came with a pair of blue stilts. The costume couldn’t be rented without the stilts.

So Ben, in a moment of bravery that he had attributed at the time to the nanobots freshly flowing through his bloodstream, put on the costume and joined his friends in the festivities happening on every street downtown. It was only when he was on the stilts, when the wind was blowing across his body, that he realized the full potential of the costume. The flowing blue fabric spread out like butterfly wings, engulfing entertained revelers below him. They shouted excitedly. They cheered him on. Ben felt a rush as he stomped his way down the street, arms extended high over his head so the flowing blue fabric caught the wind, flowing over the entertained crowds. From street to street he went, celebrating, chasing screaming kids, chasing laughing adults, adding to the throng of people celebrating humanity’s survival and persistence. He was a butterfly. He was evolving.

It was the most uncharacteristic thing he had ever done. And he had felt so alive.

The memory faded. Ben opened his eyes. They were on a road leading through a dense forest. Cleo had fallen asleep, too; her gum had migrated to her lower lip, just hanging there. It seemed risky; if the gum went down her throat, she might choke. Ben unbuckled and reached out, grabbing the gum.

She opened her eyes.

“Oh. Um.” He held the gum up. “I just didn’t want you to choke on it.”

She narrowed her eyes, reached out, and grabbed the gum. She put it back in her mouth.

Ben rubbed his eyes, glancing out the windshield. The old road ran straight through a forest of pines between two tall mountains, each of them with rocky, disjointed peaks. The view was absolutely breathtaking. To their left, the mountain seemed to creep upward, taking tall pines and ash trees along with it. To their right, another mountain took a much more violent route, leaving steep exposed gray rock with only little layers of greenery every hundred or so meters.

“I thought it would be more . . . you know, claustrophobic this far out,” Cleo said, unbuckling and reaching over the backseat of the young Spartan boy — Cassidy — so she could peer out. “Kinda pretty, actually.”

“We’re in a valley,” said Gabriel. He turned to the Historian. “There’s a unique history to this, right? I can’t remember.”

“There is a unique history in all things,” said the Historian. Seamus, Ben reminded himself. His name was Seamus.

“Duh,” said Cleo.

“The Akashi mountains are fold mountains,” Seamus explained. “They were formed when two ancient tectonic plates pushed up against each other.” He looked up at the ceiling and cleared his throat. “From above, you might think the mountain range looks something like a wrinkled shirt.”

“Neat,” Ben said. “That’s a great visual, Seamus.”

Seamus seemed taken aback by the compliment. Ben wondered if he’d said something wrong. Were Historians not supposed to take compliments?

“New Earth has tectonic plates,” Ben said, pivoting in the hopes it might make Seamus more comfortable. “It’s one of the reasons we chose it for colonization. Active plates . . .”

“Destination dead ahead,” Skye said, and at the sound of her voice Ben’s head snapped the other way so fast that he felt a twist in his neck, specifically his left sternocleidomastoid muscle. Skye pointed to the right of the road, where it forked in another direction through a cluster of pines. The blue line on the windshield followed the center of the road. The Tumbler turned right, bouncing on potholes and causing Ben’s stomach to lurch. He closed his eyes, sitting back. Don’t throw up, he told himself; don’t embarrass yourself in front of Skye.

The bouncing stopped. He opened his eyes.

Ahead was their destination: the emergency supply depot. Ben immediately recognized the architecture: mid-century industrial, with a flat roof lined with tall rotating solar panels modified with quantum dots to enhance efficiency. The building itself resembled a steel disk, water-stained, lacking any windows or glass or anything else that might not stand up against the elements. It stood surrounded by a small, flat concrete space that was choked with weeds, isolated from the forest by a chain-link fence that didn’t seem to serve any purpose in a post-Specter world. Thick, tall trees with sprawling branches and heavy green leaves brushed up against the fence, pushing on it in one place so hard that the links were bent over.

There was a building downtown of the same shape: a quaint museum dedicated to the evolution of household items, from the stirring whisk to the toaster to the mixer to the purifier to the printer. It was just the kind of thing that could only exist in a neighborhood like Ben’s, where there were enough people fascinated with retro devices aimed at putting the “human” element back into food preparation.

A waste of time, in Ben’s opinion. But he didn’t begrudge people their interests. He, after all, had more than a thousand digital photos of buildings saved to his camera at home simply because he thought architecture was neat.

“Pinging the structure’s Wi-Fi,” Cleo said, bringing up a holoscreen. She swiped it and the holographic image transferred over to the windshield. A green digital reticule appeared around the building, centered on the front door. Schematics appeared on the building, followed by lines of supplemental information scrolling down the glass, forcing Skye to lean left so she could still see the road. “Looks like environmental damage to the front door. Not sure from what.”

“Fallopia japonica,” Tahlia said in a sleepy voice. She pulled her head off Ben’s shoulder and pointed through the windshield to the green plant sprouting up at the base of the building, near the large front door. “Knotweed roots can damage foundations.”

“She knows her florae and faunae,” Ben said proudly. He shifted in his seat. “There . . . uh, there should be a backdoor.”

Skye glanced over her shoulder, looking at him. His heart skipped a beat when he met her eyes. She had beautiful green eyes, full of intelligence. Her left eye was just a little crossed . . . mild heterophoria, perhaps? She wasn’t looking at him; she was looking into him.

And it made him a nervous wreck.

“You’ve been here,” she said sharply. It might have been a question, but it sounded like an accusation.

“No! No. There’s a building with the same architectural design downtown. It has a front entrance and a rear entrance. For loading and unloading. It’s, uh, an old design.”

Skye’s eyes darted to Cleo. The Persian turned, pulling up a new holoscreen map as her console. She pinched the image of the supply building, enhancing it and spinning it 180 degrees. “Mmmmm . . . this schematic Parliament sent us before the satellite blackout shows something. Unless an automated network drone flies by — and I doubt that’ll happen, by the way — we’re not going to know for certain without taking a mosey on over there.”

Skye turned to the passenger’s seat. Her eyes narrowed. She tapped her brother on the shoulder. “Wake up. We’re here.”

Ben unbuckled, then reached for Tahlia’s buckle. She slapped away his hand. “I’m not a baby, Ben!”

A snicker from Cleo. Ben felt his face redden so he bent over, adjusting the straps on his boots. His feet were so big. He wished they weren’t so big. They’d been big since his growth spurt at age fourteen; he cursed whoever among his ancestors was responsible for passing on clown feet genes.

Skye brushed past him, making her way to the rear of the vehicle even though it hadn’t yet reached a full stop. She opened the weapons locker just past Seamus, who watched with a quiet contemplation. The moment Ben saw the weapons stashed inside, he felt a chill go down his back. This was real now. A serious threat could lay out there, somewhere, and it would be up to him to keep Tahlia and himself safe.

No. Tahlia shouldn’t go out there. It was too dangerous. She hadn’t even undergone any weapons training yet. The only Young Adult who went through weapons training at such a young age was the Spartan boy, and by the looks of it he wasn’t all that interested in testing his skills. He looked sleepy. Sleepy and afraid. He’d begun biting his knuckles, glancing in Skye’s direction until she gave the command. He slowed the Tumbler to a stop just a few meters away from the front of the depot.

“I’m turning everyone’s smartglasses on,” Cleo announced. “The magic word is Chi, if you want to give your glasses any commands.”

“Anyone need a primer on the pistols?” Skye asked. “No? Good. Ben. Gabriel. Cleo. Historian.”

She passed out the VR pistols one at a time, taking care to aim the barrels downward. Ben grabbed his, weighing the cool fiberglass in his hand. Lights — there were supposed to be three blinking lights on the side, next to the rear sight. Two lights indicated the charge level, and the third light indicated the proton projectile strength. There — he remembered enough. He could do this. But why weren’t those lights on?

“Uh . . .?” Ben held out the pistol.

Skye reached out, aiming his barrel at the floor. “Look down,” she said calmly.

Ben did. Her hand was wrapped over his. She had a strong, small grip. She was wearing her black gloves. “Oh. Right. My gloves.”

“Magnetic sensors,” Skye said with a smile. “Helps keep Athenians from accidentally shooting themselves.”

“Right.” He reached into the metal container at his belt, pulling out his gloves. He unfolded them and slipped them on. The moment his fingers touched the hilt of the VR pistol, the magnets slid his fingers into the right place. Three lights blinked on: two green, one red.

Skye handed off the last pistol to the Historian, who held it limply in his hand. “I’m not allowed to interfere in the Proving,” he said.

Skye grabbed the pistol back and attached it to his belt, on the magnetized space near his right hip between two small capsules. “This is in case things go bad.”

“What would go bad?” the girl named Wei asked. She was standing beside her older brother, one finger hooked around his belt. She looked more afraid than the others. Through Ben’s glasses, a small readout appeared beside her:

WEI MARTINEZ

AGE: 13

DAUGHTER OF CARMEN MARTINEZ, PREMIER OF PARLIAMENT.

“Nothing is going to go bad,” her brother said. What was his name again? Gabriel! Just as Ben remembered, a similar readout appeared on his glasses. “Now move your finger.” Gabriel brushed her hand away, attaching his pistol to his belt. “Thank you.”

Gabriel. Gabriel. Ben wanted to make sure he remembered all the names. The young man was definitely more important than the free citizen he’d replaced. Ben could remember his first Proving, how after Skye had destroyed the Specter, the free citizen in their Coterie had run off. All of the New Adults had run after him. Skye had kept Ben and Cleo with her, her pistol shaking in her hand as she searched the dark forest for additional threats.

“I’m at your command, dear brother.” Wei mock-bowed, then stepped beside young Reza so she wasn’t in the way. Reza, Ben noticed, looked more than a little uncomfortable being so close to her. He’d paused his game, and Ben suspected it was because the young boy didn’t like it when people walked behind him. He had his back to the console now, watching warily as Skye returned to the driver’s seat. She slid her finger across the glass console.

Underneath their feet, the engine began to gently hum.

“Engine is on. Shields are nominal,” Skye announced. “Let’s do this by the book. Cleo: confirm there’s no contact inside the supply building.”

Cleo typed a command in her computer and waited. It all felt so real now. Real enough that Ben felt a little dizzy. A million things could go wrong out here, not the least of which being a short in the Tumbler’s shield system.

Of course, the worst-case scenario was a Specter attack.

“We’re not going to leave the young ones here, are we?” Ben asked, glancing at Tahlia. She was staring up at Seamus; Seamus stared back with an equal amount of curiosity.

“That’s the protocol,” Skye said. “The Parliamentarian stays with them.”

“I . . .” Gabriel stopped. Ben looked at him, trying to read his thoughts. What had he stopped himself from saying? “I’m not their babysitter” or “I can speak for myself” topped the list. Ben felt sorry for the young man; this was the son of Carmen Martinez, one of the most respected Parliamentarians on the planet. Surely he had to be cautious about making sure he never said anything that might hurt his future political prospects. And there was no shortage of opportunities for kids to embarrass themselves, either with social networking or personal videos. Lots of kids in Clan Athens kept video blogs of their grade school science experiments, and those videos could get pretty humorous when the experiments went awry. Ben himself had kept a video log of his experiment on cancer tumors with cannabinoids that had been quite popular, so popular in fact that his email box had been flooded for months with orders for cannabis.

But for the children of Parliamentarians, the stakes were higher. The Internet never forgot.

“We’re following protocol, Gabriel,” Skye said. She punched one of the analog buttons on the console above Reza’s head, causing the boy to flinch. The transport door beside the seats beeped twice. “That’s our cue,” Skye announced. “Let’s go.”

Ben followed Cleo to the door, which had begun beeping more rapidly. Cleo looked back over her shoulder. “Turn off your stupid game and set up the cameras!”

“All right, all right,” Reza said. The boy turned off his game, typing a command into his console. On the screen were images of Ben and Cleo and Skye, each through the camera of another person’s smartglasses. Ben noticed there was a blank spot in the lower right-hand corner and put two and two together. He turned to Seamus.

“Better put your glasses on before Skye yells at you,” he whispered.

“Oh. Of course. I’d forgotten.” Seamus reached into the box on his belt and unfolded the smartglasses. He put them on. “They’re not functioning.”

Ben reached up and tapped the side of his glasses. “Say Chi, power on.”

“Chi, power on.” Seamus blinked a few times, looking around. He gave Ben a nod.

“The moment we step out,” Skye said, “we’re going to be in combat mode. That means everyone’s camera will send info to the Tumbler. Then the computer in the Tumbler will piece together the environment by looking at the images coming in from all of our cameras.” She turned to Cleo, who was leaning against the edge of the doorway. “Right?”

The Persian shrugged, blowing a bubble with her gum. “More or less.”

Skye returned to the doorway. She was clutching her VR rifle with two hands, running her thumb along the small touchscreen on the side of the gun. Ben watched, wondering how many hours she’d put in with it. What else did she do? What did she enjoy doing, besides shooting Specter targets all day?

More important: what did it matter?

“Safety locks disengaged,” came the female voice through the speaker in the ceiling.

“Are you sure about that backdoor?” Skye asked Ben.

Ben took a deep breath. His stomachache had returned. “I’m nearly positive.”

“Remember what the building looked like on the inside?”

He shook his head. “Not the rear. But, uh, the front was wide-open. The building downtown is a museum.”

Skye turned to Cleo. The Persian glanced over her shoulder, blowing another bubble. “Bro-bro, give us a pic-in-pic of the floor plan.”

“Fine.”

Ben turned — all of the kids were huddled around Reza’s console, and the poor young Persian was crunched in his seat as if trying to avoid them all. A box appeared in the upper right-hand corner of Ben’s right lens, revealing the circular floor plan of the supply depot.

“Highlight the entrances,” Cleo said. A single blue line appeared on the south end of the depot. Cleo looked at Ben, raising her eyebrows in what he thought must be an inquisitive gesture. It didn’t come off exactly right, though.

“Well, I could be wrong . . .”

“We’ll check,” Skye said. “I’ll move around the rear while you two cover the front entrance. Ready?”

Ben nodded. He wasn’t exactly ready, but at least the nanobots had managed to regulate his nerves a bit. Well, he imagined them doing so. Surely they had to be doing something in there.

The door slid open. Mid-day sunlight streamed in. They stepped out of the Tumbler one-by-one, onto the old bleached concrete parking lot. Heavy brush and tall weeds pushed their way between the rusted steel links of the fence to Ben’s right. Beyond the building were mountains, beautiful and exposed, with bright gray rock and a spattering of pine trees.

“Guns,” Skye said.

Ben pulled his gun from his belt, feeling the magnetic lock deactivate when his fingers touched the hilt. His shaky thumb found the safety button; he pressed it, and the Intensity light turned from red to green. He followed Cleo toward the front of the building, watching his footing, giving a pothole a wide berth just to be safe. The sunlight was warm, the air nearly perfect. This was exactly the type of day Ben would spend outside with friends, exploring the city.

Being out here felt so peculiar. It was as if his body had no idea what to do: release dopamine or norepinephrine, slow down his heart rate or speed it up, tense his muscles or relax them . . .

This was why the Proving was so important, he realized. Without experiencing this, there was no real way to prepare for it. During his first Proving, he’d felt secure with the New Adults. Even before Skye killed the Specter, it hadn’t seemed dangerous. Here, it felt dangerous.

“Hold your position,” Skye said. She quickly strafed the side of the wide building with her rifle aimed squarely at the shuttered steel exterior. As she moved, a new 3D image of the building’s exterior appeared in the pic-in-pic: it was using Skye’s camera to show Ben what he couldn’t see from his vantage point.

“Wow,” he whispered.

“Yeah, it’s totally cool,” Cleo said. She had both hands on her VR pistol, aiming it squarely at the damaged front door while forcefully chewing her gum. She’d no doubt been told at some point that chewing with one’s mouth open was an ages-old faux pas, but had disregarded the information. Ben glanced over his shoulder — Seamus was standing behind him, watching with his hands behind his back, his gun at his belt.

“Coming up on the rear,” Skye said, her voice coming through the little earpiece attached to Ben’s glasses.

Cleo snickered. She had an earpiece in, too, but since she didn’t have smartglasses, hers simply hooked around her little ear. She glanced at Ben. “Rear.”

“OK,” Skye said. Her tone had changed. Gotten darker. “Don’t panic.”

Cleo’s snickering stopped. Ben’s eyes looked up at the pic-in-pic in the corner of his right lens. His breath escaped in one quick whoosh. Adrenaline coursed through his body. All natural. Nothing to worry about. If anything, his body seemed oddly calm about the image coming in through Skye’s camera.

Cleo made a gagging noise. She spat out her gum. “Please tell me that’s fake.”

“Fake?” Skye asked, annoyed. “How in Hades would it be fake? Ben, can you see this?”

“Not well enough,” Ben said. He swallowed hard. “I’ll need to see the, uh, body close-up.”

“Cleo, cover the front on your own,” Skye said. “Cassy, watch Cleo’s back. Let Reza keep an eye on the Tumbler’s sensors. Take a position at the Tumbler’s side door with your pistol.”

“OK, Skye,” came the young boy’s voice. A little shaky. A little nervous. Ben couldn’t imagine what was going through the boy’s mind — although, given Clan Sparta’s obsession with war, maybe the boy had seen enough images of dead bodies to thoroughly desensitize him. Ben doubted Gabriel’s sister had had the same opportunity.

Tahlia certainly hadn’t. Her voice squeaked in his ear: “Ben, is she dead?”

Ben’s mouth moved, but no words came out. Tahlia was right: it looked like a woman, judging by the long hair.

“Make your way to me, Ben,” Skye said. “And do it fast. This rear door is open and we need to move the body to get it closed.”

Ben walked around the building on numb legs. He willed the nanobots to restore calm, even though it was fruitless. The nanobots weren’t designed to combat the body’s natural defense systems, and right now his body was simply preparing itself for danger. It was a natural response, truly awoken for the first time.

He tripped on a crack in the concrete, nearly falling, nearly dropping his gun, and nearly crying out all in one awkward moment. It was only the magnets on the tips of his fingers that kept the gun firmly in his grip. He saw his shadow wobble, then right itself.

“Walk much?” Cleo asked in his ear. “Please don’t trip and shoot yourself. You’re technically our medic.”

“I’m fine,” Ben said. His voice betrayed his nervousness and he silently cursed himself, taking a deep breath to calm his anxiety. He wished he could turn off the camera for just a minute. That was all he needed. Just a minute — why couldn’t the nanobots do something about his flushed face? He hated turning red. He hated blushing so much.

“Just take a deep breath,” Skye said slowly. Her voice sent a chill down his spine. She’d seen him trip in her pic-in-pic. Now she was trying to help him, which was only more embarrassing.

“I’m coming,” Ben said, a little too harshly. He winced. “Sorry, sorry. I’m almost there.”

He followed the curve of the building, lowering his pistol when he saw Skye. She was standing near the open rear door, her VR rifle aimed inside. At her feet was the woman’s body. Beside the half-open door was a much larger top-opening steel shutter for loading and unloading supplies. It was dusty, the word “EMERGENCY” covered by black water stains that ran down the exterior.

“Well?” Skye asked.

Ben knelt down, examining her. It was a middle-aged woman, her head resting on her side so her shriveled eyes seemed to be watching him. A calmness passed over Ben. It wasn’t the first corpse he had seen. Everyone spent some time in the morgue during secondary school. The corpses had names, and while some students opted to keep their distance, avoiding learning the names, Ben had preferred it. They were still human beings. They were just in a different stage of the life cycle.

“This woman was someone important,” he said, taking a deep breath. He could smell her so he breathed through his mouth. None of the medical corpses smelled, and the stench of rot and vacated bowels and urine jarred Ben’s senses. He blinked a few times, examining her. She was wearing blue scrubs and a white lab coat with a blue ID tag clipped to the breast pocket. She’d come from somewhere else. Somewhere nearby. “She’s . . . definitely dead.”

Skye raised an eyebrow, keeping her sights on the doorway.

“Did the professor just tell a joke about a dead person?” Cleo asked, her voice shrill in Ben’s ear. “That’s morbid, dasher. Seriously morbid.”

“It wasn’t meant as a joke,” Ben said. He reached for her badge but Skye’s hand found his neck. Her touch was electric, freezing him.

“Wait. Pull her out of the doorway. I want this door closed. We don’t know what’s in there.”

“We might not have to worry about what’s in there,” Ben said. He pointed to the woman’s head, which was preventing the door from shutting. “We have to worry about what’s out here.”

Skye took a step back.

“What?” Cleo asked in the earpiece. “What do you mean by that, professor?”

“The woman died trying to get inside.” Ben took a deep breath and looked over his shoulder. That sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was getting worse. He scanned the area beyond the fences. It was all undergrowth and tall pines, pushing on the fencing. Impossible to see deeper into the forest.

But something was out there.

Chapter 9: Skye Mitchell

Clan Sparta

The moment the body was clear, she slammed the door shut. But a shut door only afforded a little protection, especially if the there was a Specter inside. Even a weak Specter could phase through such a flimsy door. Skye’s glasses identified and highlighted a control panel on the side of the building that could be engaged to lock, but only with the right access code.

“Cleo . . . do you see this?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have access?”

“Doesn’t matter. I can hack it either way.”

“OK, get over here. And bring the Historian with you.” She looked down at Ben, whose hands were shakily pulling off the corpse’s white lab coat, revealing her bloated arms. The skin was dried and had turned a dark gray, the way every Specter victim looked after one of the ghost-like aliens passed through their body. Like it was taking their very souls.

She could feel an anxious sort of electricity surge through her body. The kind of electricity that Specters fed upon. There was one here. Maybe more than one, no doubt waiting in the ground for the sun to set.

This could be her chance to prove herself to Father.

Cleo and the Historian arrived. Cleo immediately looked away from the corpse. The Historian examined it, then looked up and examined the New Adults. Skye met his eyes, telegraphing confidence. She wanted to be sure he wouldn’t misread her. She wasn’t afraid. She was prepared for this.

“We need this door locked,” Skye told Cleo. “If you can’t look at the corpse, walk around it.”

The Persian girl did so, trying to make sure she didn’t get even a glimpse of the dead body. She reached out with one hand for the door controls, then cautiously turned. Her squeamishness was borderline annoying.

“It’s running on a reserve power source,” she said, lifting her VRacelet and using it to scan the mechanism. “This lady tried to get inside and just ended up sending a surge of electricity into the mainframe. Fried the circuits, all the way up to the solar panels’ photovoltaic sensors, which shut down to prevent overheating. Boy, these locking mechanisms always have a dozen bugs.”

“Can you fix it?” Skye asked.

“I can totally fix it.” She turned, smiling, then caught sight of the corpse. Her face paled. She looked away. “I’ll just wait until the professor’s done.”

“That’s a great idea,” Ben said, setting down his medical satchel. He unstrapped it, opening it up to reveal a dozen pockets full of Clan Athens medical devices. Besides the varying shape, they were indistinguishable in Skye’s eyes. “Whatever killed her definitely wasn’t inside, judging by the position of the body. She was running from something, probably trying to hide inside the supply depot.”

“Is it a Specter?” Skye asked, staring out at the trees beyond the perimeter fencing. If they were nearby, they were underground, waiting for night to fall. She turned back to Ben, hoping for confirmation.

“I would say that’s the most probable culprit.” Ben very gently pressed his fingers underneath the woman’s jawline. Her face was frozen in a look of horror, her bloodshot eyes looking somewhere to the right. It was as if she’d been aged a hundred years in the span of a second, leaving her skin wrinkled and ashen and her eyeballs sunken. Ben pulled a small phone-shaped device from the kit, turning it on and running it across the woman’s forehead. Color-coded messages appeared on the device’s screen.

“What is that?” Skye asked.

“A medscanner,” Ben answered. His hands had stopped shaking — whether he realized it or not, the nervous tension in his face was gone. If Skye didn’t know any better, she would have mistaken him for a fully-fledged Athenian doctor. “The magnetic resonance imager sends little pulses that echo, then decodes the echo to show me what’s happening under the epidermis. This will give me a better idea of her cause of death. Neural synapses are definitely damaged. Some minor trauma to the skull, probably when she fell.” He lifted up the collar of the woman’s blue scrubs, very gently pressing the device on the sternum. A summary of the readings appeared in the upper right-hand corner of Skye’s glasses. Medical terminology that she didn’t understand.

“How about you translate this junk for us?” Cleo asked.

“Oh. Sorry. Stress on the arteries, damaged neural synapses, simultaneous shutdown of the brain and heart . . . it was a Specter.”

“Sacrebleu,” Cleo whispered.

Skye turned to her, too annoyed to hide it anymore. “Doesn’t your clan practice formal language?”

“My clan does, but I don’t,” she responded, shrugging.

Skye bit her lip to keep from saying more. There were other things to deal with now. This wasn’t just a simple Proving anymore. This was an opportunity. A woman was dead, killed by a Specter. If it was still around, it would appear tonight. They could destroy it. And how many Spartans had killed a Specter during both of their Provings? Few.

Skye would be granted honors. Glory.

And what would Father think of that? Ha! He’d be speechless.

She imagined her offspring at Carnivale someday, their faces painted with the knowledge of a thousand past generations of Spartans. And this one is Skye Mitchell, she who slew her first Specter in the thirteenth year of her life, and a second Specter in the eighteenth year of her life. Skye Mitchell, who later became General Mitchell and won great battles in the forgotten city of Moscow and held the terrain until a new Xenoshield could be put in place, restoring one more chunk of the Earth to humanity.

“Gabriel, are you seeing this?” Ben asked.

“Unfortunately,” the Parliamentarian answered through the earpiece. “Parliament will want information about her. They might want her body brought back for testing.”

“Clan Athens would certainly like that,” Ben murmured, staring at the corpse’s face. His mind was elsewhere, Skye realized. He didn’t see a simple corpse. He saw opportunity, too. How many Athenians got the opportunity to study a Specter victim?

Few. Which meant he would be easy to convince.

“We should repair the array,” Skye said. “Then we’ll decide what to do with the corpse.”

“Then let’s do it already,” Cleo said. “I’ve got the creeps just being out here.”

Skye hefted the VR rifle, feeling its weight in her upper arms. She panned the open compound. “Do you concur, Parliamentarian?”

“I concur,” he answered in her earpiece.

“We’ll clear the depot,” Skye said. “Then Cleo can get to repairing the wiring or whatever it is that needs fixing.”

“I can gather more information,” Ben said. He swallowed, nodding to the corpse. “From her. With the examination kits in the Tumbler, I can probably get a pretty good idea of what kind of Specter killed her. Maybe I could determine, uh, how powerful it was.”

Skye nodded. “Let’s clear the depot first. Then the Historian can help you drag it to the Tumbler.”

“Her,” Ben said, standing up. “She was a person, once.”

Skye didn’t say anything. His tone had been forceful. Authoritative. He may be timid, but at least he’s assertive when it counts. By Hades, get a hold of yourself, girl! This guy’s going to be your medic for the rest of your life . . .

Cleo waited for Ben to step back, then unlocked the door. She pulled it open, stepping aside and indicating Skye should take the lead. Good, she thought. She leaned in and aimed her rifle at the dark opening. With the afternoon sunlight shining down, she couldn’t get a good look inside. But then the camera on her glasses started doing its work, sending the image back to the Tumbler. The Tumbler’s computers analyzed the dark image, then filled it in with bright green outlines, giving Skye an approximation of what lay inside.

A crescent-shaped computer console. Shelving units along the walls. Three crates stacked one atop the other near the loading door.

She took one step inside, flicking on the light at the end of the VR rifle. The beam cut through dust, landing on the crates at the far end of the large single-room building. Her camera adjusted again with help from the Tumbler’s CPU, magnifying the small amount of light and turning everything a tint of green, revealing most of the room. The crescent-shaped computer console sat near the door, and behind it were rows and rows of spare parts sitting on shelves. Any kind of spare part that might be needed to repair the farming machines, AI transport vehicles, or anything else that might make its way out beyond the Xenoshield.

“Looks clear,” Skye said. She stepped inside, checking her corners. The building’s walls curved, and along the walls were more shelves lined with larger equipment. Transistors and engine parts and breakers, the types of stuff that might fix a damaged Tumbler. This place had everything.

And arms. Dozens and dozens of robotic arms of all shapes and sizes. Skye flashed her light across them, ignoring the data points appearing on her glasses in green text. The usefulness of the arms — pollinating, pest control, soldering, drilling — didn’t pique Skye’s interest.

But Cleo on the other hand . . .

“This is ah-maze-ing. Look at that over there.” The Persian pointed toward the first row of shelves. Skye shined her beam of light on a row of box-shaped gizmos that seemed to be made up of much smaller boxes, like the toy building sets that could be designed on a 3D printer. “Ho-lee crap,” Cleo said. “You know what those are?”

“No idea,” Skye murmured. She shined her light left, down another empty row. There would be a lift somewhere that led to the lower level. If a Specter was in here, it would be on the lower level. Her right boot pressed down on the hard concrete floor. It would be difficult for a Specter to pass through this floor without expending a lot of energy. If there’s a Specter below, it might be weak enough to take on myself, without Cleo’s help . . .

Glory.

“Those are decommissioned repair bots,” Cleo said. “They used to repair bridge joints and skyscraper lifts and any other nook and cranny that humans couldn’t get to.” She scoffed. “They were replaced by these stupid little manufacturing bots that look like crabs. Total one-trick ponies, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” Skye answered. “What do you need to fix the solar array?”

“Wiring and a circuit transfer box,” Cleo answered. She moved closer to Skye, resting a hand on her shoulder plate. Cleo pointed toward the fifth row; the shelves didn’t go all the way to the other end of the massive room. “That’s the lift over there. The wiring should be collected in spools, probably locked up but seriously did you see those repair bots? You have no idea what I could do with one of those. They’re fantastic.”

“If they were fantastic, they’d still be in service. Come on.” Skye led her between the rows. The faint echo of her voice made her uneasy.

Are you scared, perhaps?

Yes. But she could control it. That was what made a Spartan strong: recognizing fear, then dominating it.

“They were decommissioned because they got stuck,” Cleo said. “And by the time that happened, Clan Persia was already at work on the smaller machines that could do more specialized stuff. But I’m telling you, one of those repair bots would be so awesome to have. See, they’re made of these smaller pieces, right? And depending on what needs to be done, those pieces can break down and rearrange themselves into a new form. So the bot can slip through tight spaces, rearrange its mechanical arms, move its battery cells, you name it!”

“Wonderful.” Skye stopped at the end of the row. There was indeed a lift built into the floor, with a single control panel sticking up from the steel floor square. A red light was blinking very faintly on the panel. Skye wiped away a layer of dust. “Can you hack this?”

“Natch.” Cleo flicked her wrist and aimed her VRacelet at the panel. She studied the readout on the touchscreen, then tapped a few buttons.

The control panel’s light turned green.

“Hop aboard,” Cleo said with a smile.

Skye stepped onto the steel floor of the lift, tapping her boot a few times. It was reinforced, which meant that there most likely was heavy equipment in the lower level as well as wiring. Which meant there could be ample spaces for Specters to hide inside.

“Check your shields,” she told Cleo.

Cleo didn’t look at her VRacelet. “Ninety-five percent. You’re at ninety-two percent, if you’re curious.”

“I know.” She could see her shield monitor in the corner of her right lens. She’d already checked it half a dozen times. It was hard not to check it.

The lift began lowering, kicking up dust in the process. Cleo was staring at Skye’s rifle.

“OK, I’ve gotta ask: how many times have you fired that big gun?”

“Thousands,” Skye answered, keeping her voice barely above the electronic whirr of the lift’s motor.

The Persian shook her head. “Boy, it’s all work, work, work at Clan Sparta, isn’t it?”

Skye ignored her, crouching down. They’d descended past the concrete floor of the first level. Skye flashed her light, scanning the lower level as they continued their slow descent. Her camera used its night vision ability to adjust to the darkness. The Tumbler pinged an approximate floor plan, outlining the walls in bright green.

From high up, she could get a good look at all of it: large equipment to the left, an old motorized forklift in the center, a yellow cage full of spooled wires to the right. No Specter glow.

Yet. Now is not the time to relax. Or lose hope.

As if on cue, Skye felt the soft hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

“There’s probably keys hidden around here,” Cleo said, hopping off the lift before it reached the floor. “Of course, if this an emergency supply depot, why lock anything up? Anyone who ends up here is already stressed out and —”

Skye reached out and grabbed her ponytail before she could saunter off. She pulled Cleo back. The lift dipped into the space in the floor, clicking securely into place. “Draw your weapon. Point it like you’ve been trained.”

Cleo drew her pistol, aiming it toward the forklift near the center of the room. Its twin steel forks were raised waist-high, pointing at the girls like two monstrous fangs. The forklift wasn’t alone. Behind the forklift was another big machine with multiple arms, and behind that another machine with a single drill-like appendage.

“What is it?” Cleo asked.

“Look down at your VRacelet,” Skye whispered.

Cleo did so. Her eyes widened. “Oh. No. Electron spike.”

“Shhhhhh.” Skye crouched, shining her flashlight on the machines. They cast long, heavy shadows over the walls. The dark green outlines flickered. “What’s happening to our night vision?”

“The foundation is too thick to send a reliable signal to the Tumbler’s computer,” Cleo whispered. “We can use my VRacelet, but it’ll drain my battery. Where’s the Specter? Do you see it?”

“No.” Skye could feel her heart racing. She took a deep breath, inhaling through her nose. Petrol. There was an emergency-emergency generator somewhere . . .

There! To their left, near the opposite wall! A generator and an engine and a transistor. The generator sat on a pair of wooden risers. The engine and transistor hung from metal hooks attached to the ceiling.

Then, through the rubber soles of her boots, Skye felt the unmistakable vibration of something moaning underground.

Chapter 10: Gabriel Martinez

Parliament

“Reza. Reza!” Cleo’s frantic, squeaky voice came through the speakers above the twin computer consoles.

“I’m here,” the boy said, shifting in his seat. “I don’t know what to do!”

Gabriel reached over and slid his finger over the holo-screen, deleting the Athenian’s and the Historian’s video feeds. Now, it was just the video feeds coming from Cleo’s glasses and Skye’s glasses floating over the holo-bulb. With fewer screens, Cleo’s and Skye’s video feeds grew twice as large, making it easier to see the inside of the depot basement.

“Can you give us a little detail down here, bro-bro?” Cleo asked.

“No,” Reza said. The boy looked almost bored, as if he didn’t realize the danger the two were in. But Gabriel knew.

“What he means is that it’s processing,” Gabriel said, taking a seat at Cleo’s console. He turned on the holoscreen and pulled up Skye’s and Cleo’s video feeds. Skye’s was coming from the camera on her glasses. Cleo’s was coming from the little camera on her earpiece. “The data is coming in too slow. Skye, can you pan your flashlight slowly from left to right?”

Skye’s rifle turned. The light panned slowly across the larger equipment. Vehicle parts hung from chains. Ion batteries sat stacked on old charging units, each one wrapped in plastic. Farming machines stood in a row like silent sentries. One had a dozen arms with tiny pincers for weeding; the one behind it had just a single soil tiller, the arm hanging downward like an elephant’s trunk.

“Cleo?” It was Ben’s voice. “What kind of reading are you getting?”

“A . . . big one.” The feed from Cleo’s camera was shaky, cutting in and out as her head darted left and right. Gabriel wiped sweat off his forehead. The other kids huddled around him, watching. He wanted to tell them to go sit down, but maybe that would be worse. They would ask what’s happening and get distracting and then who knew? They were kids. They were mostly clan kids but they were still kids.

“Keep panning, Skye,” Gabriel said. He tried to sound calm. He took a deep breath. The last thing they needed was some frantic citizen screaming in their ears.

Skye’s flashlight reached the forklift, then panned to the long cage filled with spools of wire.

“There,” Gabriel said, double-checking the wireless data readout. The connection to Cleo’s VRacelet was weak, sending packets of data so slow that a warning was actually flashing on the console touchscreen below the holo-bulb. “The Tumbler’s computer is compiling the images. You should get a better visual enhancement in a moment.”

On both of the floating video screens, green outlines of the objects in the darkness appeared. As Skye’s eyes turned to the forklift, the glasses followed the path of her retinas and provided some details:

AX-27 FORKLIFT

2300 KGS.

LOAD CAPACITY: 8000 KGS.

The video feeds flickered again.

A crash crackled through the Tumbler’s speakers, followed by what Gabriel assumed was a scream by Cleo. Skye wouldn’t scream in terror. Spartans didn’t scream, period.

“What was that?” Gabriel asked, leaning in. He felt Wei’s hand wrap around his shoulder and pull. He pulled her off but kept hold of her hand.

Skye’s camera panned left. She shined her flashlight on the large contraptions lined up along the concrete wall. The engine lay upon the ground beside the bulky-looking generator. The chains that had been holding up the engine swung left and right, their shadows dancing on the wall. Two of the rusted hooks bumped against each other, clinging. The sound came through the speakers with a static frizzle — the wireless data feed was breaking up again.

“Ben,” Gabriel said. . . .“The solid concrete walls of the basement . . . a Specter would have a hard time phasing through them, right?”

“To some extent,” Ben answered. “Specters are still composed of atoms, so it takes energy for them to pass through solid objects. They most likely prefer soft soil because it’s easier for them to complete the phasing process. We don’t know for sure —”

“Skye.” Gabriel licked his lips, thinking. “Is there anything softer that the Specter might be hiding in nearby? A crate or something like that?”

The VR rifle panned back to the forklift, then to the cage of wires. She stepped forward. To her right, the cage was illuminated with a softer light. Skye’s camera turned to Cleo. The Persian had her VRacelet held out, shining a dim light on the wire cage.

“I made a few modifications,” she said in a low voice.

“Just watch your battery life,” Skye told her.

Cleo scoffed. “I made a few modifications to that, too. You just worry about the super scary ghost, mmmkay?”

“Skye . . .” Cassidy, the Spartan boy, was beside Gabriel now. “Be careful.”

Skye didn’t answer. She moved closer to the forklift, her boot crunching on the floor. The shadow of the forklift appeared on the ground behind it, the forks like long black arms that seemed to be reaching out for a hug. Gabriel’s heart raced.

“Skye . . .” Cassidy whispered. “The ground . . .”

Skye looked down, flashing her light on the gravel. Gravel. No concrete flooring.

“Sacrebleu,” Cleo whispered. Her VRacelet light’s little beam cut across the floor. It was gravel everywhere. No solid concrete. Gabriel may not have gone through the same Specter training as the clan kids did, but he understood the basics that Ben had laid out: the gravel was loose, which made it easier for the Specters to phase through.

The Specter was under their feet.

“Get out of there,” Gabriel urged. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple. Curse the people who’d designed the building. “Regroup on the surface! I’ll . . . I’ll get a pistol and we’ll do this together.”

Both of their cameras began turning left and right, the lights flashing across the gravel basement floor. With each step, their boots crunched.

A low, haunting moan came through the circular speakers above the touchscreen. Gabriel’s heart slammed against his ribcage.

“Skye,” Cleo whispered. “I’m freaking out. Let’s go back up.”

The cameras shook. Through Cleo’s camera, Gabriel could see Skye’s calm face, her left eye just slightly crossed. “Hold out your hand,” she ordered. “Aim your VRacelet toward the fallen engine in the corner.”

Cleo held out her arm. On the data feed, Cleo’s VRacelet sensor pinged a warning. The Tumbler grabbed the ping and popped up a warning message in a new holoscreen:

ENERGY SPIKE DETECTED

“Get out!” Gabriel shouted.

Cleo turned, staring into Skye’s camera with wide, frightened eyes. Skye’s hand reached out, steadying her. “Remember how slow the lift went down? It’s going to go just as slow on its way up.”

One Skye’s screen, Cleo’s panicked face seemed to pucker; her right eye squeezed out a tear. On the other screen, Skye’s eyes were dark. Calm.

“You don’t know for sure that it’s there,” Gabriel said. “You could . . .”

“Just shut up, Parliament.” Both cameras went shaky as they ran behind the forklift. Skye’s VR rifle swung over the steel forks, aimed right at the space where the engine had been hanging. The rusted steel chains were still gently swinging back and forth, counting the measures of Gabriel’s heartbeat.

The chains began to glow. First, it was a dark orange, barely visible on the screens. Then the orange grew brighter, like a fire that had just been fed a fresh gallon of petrol. Orange, transparent claws emerged from the ground beside the fallen engine.

The moaning grew louder.

Wei screamed.

“Reza, take her,” Gabriel ordered. “Go sit her down.”

Reza did as he was told, slipping out of the other chair. He took Wei’s hand and pulled her away from the screens.

“What is it?” Ben asked. “Skye, give me an idea so I can help.”

“Claws. Sharp tail. Diamond-shaped spikes along the spine. Bright orange effervescence. Snout.”

“Open snout,” Cleo corrected. “With long teeth.”

“Definitely a Sebecus Specter,” Ben said. “If it comes in close, it will try to use its jaws. Your shields won’t last long if it gets a hold of you. Turn off your lights — you won’t need them now and we don’t fully know how the Specters see.”

The lights clicked off. Now the creature’s glow was brighter. It looked like a fiery ghost, some kind of afterimage of a malfunctioning hologram. It was pulling itself out of the ground, behind the engine, but Gabriel could see enough to know that even his worst nightmares about the Specters didn’t do them justice. None of the videos or holo-movies did them justice.

The moans grew louder, rumbling the Tumbler’s speakers.

Gabriel felt dizzy. His mouth, dry, tried to form some kind of word but all that came out was a raspy croak. The Specter looked as if Clan Athens had merged the genes of a human and a crocodile in some mad science experiment; one long arm reached out, grabbing onto the engine, its effervescent claws slipping through the hardened steel. The entire corner of the basement seemed to be burning.

There was a thunking sound and a flash of bright blue light. It hit the creature’s arm, sending yellow sparks flying in every direction. The creature’s hand sunk into the engine, disappearing inside. The Sebecus turned in the direction of Skye and Cleo.

More, smaller flashes of blue light. They hit the engine, leaving glowing blue dots that quickly dissipated.

The moaning grew louder, threatening to blow out the speakers.

“He’s hiding behind the engine,” Gabriel said, panicked now. They were doomed. They’d had a shot and they’d missed. They’d missed! “You spooked him. Run while you can!”

“There’s nowhere to run!” Cleo hissed.

“Skye. Get behind the forklift.” It was Ben’s voice, calm and methodic, as if he was guiding a young Athenian’s scalpel across her first swatch of human skin. “Give the Specter distance. It’s using echo-location to see the area.”

Skye hesitated. “We have cover.”

“It does, too. It senses a threat now. It’s going to become more aggressive the longer you keep it pinned behind the engine. If its spectral energy is strong enough to knock one engine off its hooks . . .”

“It could knock off others,” Skye finished.

“Trust your shields,” Ben said. “Give it distance. Its glow is dark orange, which means it has lots of energy already stored up. But instinct will drive it out of its cover to neutralize the threat.”

Skye turned to Cleo. Her eyes were wide; her skin was bathed in the soft glow of the Specter’s luminescence reflecting off the concrete walls. “Go,” Skye ordered. She turned back to the Specter. It was emerging from behind the engine, its long, spiked tail swinging, bumping against the hard concrete but not passing through it. Gabriel watched, transfixed. They weren’t ghosts, he kept telling himself . . . they were something else entirely. Something worse.

Skye turned away. The camera shook as she made her way to the other side of the large basement. The glasses outlined the two farming machines, each one sitting on four thin wheels. The middle machine stood silent sentry, its spider-like arms spread wide like the delicate finger bones of a bat.

They reached the third machine and turned, crouching low and peering out from around its drilling arm. Their glasses identified the Specter, highlighting the single burst of proton energy that had hit its arm. Little yellow sparks seemed to bleed from the hole, fluttering to the ground and disappearing. It was skulking slowly toward the forklift, walking on all fours.

“It’s wounded,” Tahlia whispered over Gabriel’s shoulder. “Wounded animals are more desperate and dangerous.”

“Just like wounded humans,” Gabriel whispered.

Another low moan, so loud that it rattled the chains hanging above the creature’s head. Two hooks snapped and the hanging transistor device swung toward the creature, slipping through its translucent body. Its fiery orange color diminished just a bit, just enough for the Tumbler’s CPU to send a message to Skye’s glasses. Gabriel watched, hypnotized, terrified. He tucked his hands around his ribs, suddenly cold. It would kill them both. It would slip through their bodies and steal their very souls.

The creature moved silently, reaching out and grabbing the forklift and pulling itself up. It turned its long, crocodile-like snout, searching. Sniffing. The images grew distorted for a moment as the wireless signal struggled to keep up with the data feed.

“It’s mimicking an animal,” Tahlia said without a shred of fear in her voice. In fact, Gabriel was pretty sure she had a hint of fascination in her tone. “Ben! Do you see that? Specters can’t smell! But it’s trying to!”

“Cleo,” Ben whispered. “My feed keeps cutting out. Watch it closely. Is it passing through any objects, or is it going around them? Type the answer on your VRacelet.”

Both cameras were transfixed on the creature. It fell back on all fours, moving around the forklift. Cleo’s answer appeared on the bottom of both of the floating holo-screens:

AROUND.

“They spend energy when they pass through objects,” Ben said in a low, calm voice. “It’s saving its energy because it senses danger. Skye, you might be able to use one of those pieces of farming equipment for cover.”

Skye’s camera panned down. Her fingers reached out and typed something on Cleo’s VRacelet. The message appeared on the bottom of the holographic screens on Gabriel’s console:

HOW MANY SHOTS

“I don’t know,” Ben answered. “I’m sorry. I’ve . . . I’ve never seen one so dark orange before.”

“You will need at least eight clear shots with the VR rifle. More with the pistol.” It was the Historian, Seamus. “Based on recorded encounters, that is.”

“Boundless sleep,” Gabriel whispered. A Blake poem popped into his head:

My spectre around me night and day

Like a wild beast guards my way.

My emanation far within

Weeps incessantly for my sin.

A fathomless and boundless deep,

There we wander, there we weep;

On the hungry craving wind

My spectre follows thee behind.

Cleo and Skye looked at each other. Cleo’s tense fear had become etched so tightly into her soft features that Gabriel feared her skin might flake away. Skye’s face was still calm, still controlled. But a bead of sweat had gathered on her forehead, reflecting the orange glow.

The Specter stepped around the forklift . . .

Skye’s eyes widened. She grabbed Cleo’s arm and pulled her around the other side of the drilling machine. Gabriel leaned in, fighting the urge to hide underneath the console. He couldn’t speak. His lips refused to part.

It had to be close: an eerie, fiery light slipped between the large farming machines, illuminating the rows of spare parts on the opposite shelving units. Gabriel leaned in, watching the Specter’s large, lizard-shaped body move past the multi-armed farming machine. First its crocodile-like head, then its massive torso, then its long spiked tail.

The glow remained, but the creature’s body was gone. It’s right there, Gabriel mentally urged Skye, right on the other side of the farming machines. The girls turned around. All Gabriel could see was what Skye and Cleo were seeing: the row of shelves opposite the farming machines. His heart sank. His brain seemed to scream out, causing his vision to blur.

This was all a mistake. They shouldn’t have come here. Had Gabriel’s mother known it would be dangerous, she never would have arranged to transfer him and Wei into this Coterie. This was all a cruel twist of fate. It was supposed to be a routine mission. It was supposed to be safe.

“Oh no,” Tahlia whispered.

The orange glow spilled out between the farming machine’s arms, temporarily blinding the cameras.

Their backs were to the Specter.

Cleo and Skye were going to die.

Chapter 11: Skye Mitchell

Clan Sparta

Closer. They were bathed in the Specter’s glow now; it was moving behind the other side of the farming equipment, moaning so deeply that Skye could feel it vibrating her bones. She didn’t dare try to shoot it . . . any noise would give away her position, and right now she had the advantage. She glanced over her shoulder, watching its spiked tail rise up over the machines. If it continued, it would either turn left — and spot them both — or turn right, and leave its back exposed.

But it can sense us. It can feel our neural energy . . .

It would turn left.

The glow slipped between the gap to Skye’s left. She felt an odd tingle run down her spine. An urge to run.

Don’t run . . . just wait . . .

The glow stopped. The shadows of the picking machine’s arms drew over the gravel. Gabriel’s voice was whispering in her ear run, run, run, so fast that it matched the rhythm of her frantic heartbeat.

It’s not moving . . . it senses us!

“Skye, listen.” It was Ben’s voice, quiet and calm, as if he were whispering secrets only to her. His composure slowed Skye’s heart rate. “According to the Pauli exclusion principle, no two electrons can exist in the same quantum state. That’s why, even though matter is mostly empty, we still appear to be solid. It’s an illusion, but it’s one that works really well. You’re not really holding the VR rifle in your hand — there is less than a nanometer of space between your hand and your glove, and your glove and your gun. The Specters can break this principle. That’s how they pass through solid objects. It requires tremendous energy. Use that knowledge against them.”

Skye took a deep breath, held it, then forced it out quickly between her pursed lips. The loud whistle seemed ear-splitting, jolting her nerves — too late to change her mind now, she twisted her body, her boots digging into the gravel as she fell back and faced the farming contraptions. She lifted her rifle, seeing the Specter’s strange glow change, move, and then without warning its crocodile face emerged from the body of the large machine. Its mouth opened. Cleo fell back, screaming. A claw phased through, reaching out for Skye.

She fired her rifle. The blue proton bullet tore through the creature’s arm, sending yellow sparks fluttering like butterflies into the air. The Specter’s mouth opened wide, revealing sharp, finger-length teeth, so close that Skye could see their serrated edges.

It can’t bite you It can’t bite you It can’t bite you It can’t bite you . . .

She pulled the trigger again, and proton bullets tore through the side of the creature’s mouth. Instead of roaring it only let out a low moan and reached out with its other hand, pressing down on Skye’s Xenoshield. She could feel it pushing on her, pushing her rifle away from her body. She couldn’t aim her rifle; the force of the creature pressing against her shield system made it impossible. Its head slipped through the machine, followed by its torso. Its fiery orange claws dug into her shield, which seemed to burn white at the Specter’s touch. A yellow warning blinked on her glasses:

SHIELD STRENGTH 60%

Cleo screamed louder. In her ear, Skye could hear the kids screaming, too.

She fell back onto the floor. The Specter loomed over her, three times as big, the side of its face bleeding little yellow globules of energy. It opened its mouth, reaching out to Skye with both arms . . .

Trust the shields.

She drew her legs in toward her body . . .

SHIELD STRENGTH 40%

. . . And pushed with every ounce of muscle she had.

The Specter’s body pressed against the shield. It protected Skye’s legs like a bubble, glowing white near the soles of her boots where the Specter’s scaly chest was pressing against it. The Specter reached for her face but the shield stopped the claws six inches from her skin. The orange tips of each claw dug into the shield, creating dull white ripples that seemed to float across the air. Skye could feel the force of the creature pressing down against the shield, testing her leg muscles. She took a deep breath and pushed her legs again.

SHIELD STRENGTH 30%

You’re going to die!

Skye screamed, using every ounce of strength in her leg muscles to push the Specter back.

In the corner of her right lens, her shield meter went from yellow to red.

SHIELD STRENGTH 20%

Is your time to die, girl? Or will the light of the summer moon hold back the night?

The muscles in her legs ached. Her vision seemed to blur as the Specter’s jaws snapped silently at her head. Orange drool slipped out between two teeth, landing on her shield and rolling off the shield.

A blue bullet flew through the air, piercing the side of the Specter’s scaly shoulder. Then three more. Yellow sparks showered from the wounds. The Specter’s dark orange glow dimmed to the color of a tangerine.

“Die!” Cleo shouted. “Die, die, die, die, die!”

Skye extended her legs, pushing the Specter away from her body. She brought the VR rifle up, aimed the barrel at the creature’s chest, and pulled the trigger.

Again.

And again.

And again.

With each shot, the creature seemed to float backward. Three more shots hit it in the side. Its tangerine glow dimmed to a faded yellow. It opened its mouth again and Skye fired a precise shot. The jaw detached, dissipating into little speckles of ash. Skye fired twice more. Both blue proton bullets tore through its head, hitting the farming equipment and leaving circular burn marks.

The Specter’s body broke apart like a holographic image abruptly cut off. Yellow ashes floated to the ground, landing among the gravel rocks. The last of their glow dissipated, leaving Cleo and Skye in darkness.

Chapter 12: Benjamin Redcloud

Clan Athens

Ben couldn’t help but smile when he saw the two walk out of the building — the terrible urge to run up and hug both of them was almost too much. He turned to Seamus, expecting the Historian to return the smile, but Seamus kept a stoic face, simply watching.

The kids, however, were about as ecstatic as one could be. Everyone had hurried over to the supply depot’s rear entrance to greet Skye and Cleo as they emerged victorious.

“Yes, we are heroes,” Cleo said with a grin. She blew on her pistol, then attached it to her belt. “Was it dark? Yes. Was it scary? Hell yes. But deep down, I knew we had it under control.”

“Is that why you were screaming so loud?” Reza asked with a snotty tone that only befitted a sibling. Ben recognized that tone well.

“Eh . . . I was just trying to scare it.”

Ben turned to Skye, who was looking down at the dead woman. She licked her lips. Ben wondered if she was playing over the event in her mind, trying to gauge just how close she’d come to a similar death.

“I didn’t see much,” Ben said. “Uh . . . congratulations. That makes two dead Specters for you now. I would imagine that’s a big deal for Clan Sparta.”

Skye looked at him. The afternoon sun’s light was dimming, but still it hit her fair, freckled skin with a degree of harshness. She’d pulled up her glasses — he could see her beautiful green eyes focused on him and him alone, her left eye’s heterophoria kicking in after a moment. Ben liked it. It disarmed her a bit, made her less intimidating. It reminded him that she was human.

A really, really attractive human.

“You were very helpful,” she said finally. She tried to get around the kids but Tahlia stopped her, touching the VR rifle with one cautious finger. “What are you doing, Athenian?”

“That was a Sebecus Specter,” Tahlia said, looking up at Skye with what Ben could only describe as a serious kid’s face. The most serious a thirteen-year-old could look.

“So?”

“It was huge. But you killed it! That’s pretty neat.”

Skye pursed her lips. It looked to Ben as if she was trying to figure out how to respond. It was cute.

“Were you afraid your shield would break?” Tahlia asked.

“Heck no!” Cleo said before Skye could give an answer. “Those shields are prime Clan Persia tech. They don’t fail. They run out of juice, yeah, but Skye was the epitome of cool.”

“Your heart rate was elevated,” Tahlia pointed out, ignoring Cleo.

“So?” Skye asked defensively. “I need a protein drink.”

“I’ll get you one,” Tahlia said, following her back toward the Tumbler.

Ben watched Skye go, his eyes inadvertently glancing downward to watch her walk. When he turned back, the Historian raised an eyebrow.

“The, uh, the woman here died of a Specter attack,” was all Ben could manage.

“So you said before.”

“I just wanted to make sure you caught it. You know, for your records and all.”

Seamus said nothing. Behind him, the others had crowded around Cleo, anxious to hear her recount the entire ordeal. Cleo wasted no time jumping into exaggerations, leading the kids — and Gabriel — back toward the Tumbler while she swung a coil of blue wires over her head with each new jump in the story.

Ben sighed and knelt beside the woman’s body, adjusting his feet so he was as comfortable as possible. His hormonal stupidity was going to bite him in the butt. Their Coterie had destroyed a Specter, which meant their archival footage would get watched. A lot. All of his embarrassing moments captured for all to see. He could see it now: Footage of Skye shooting the Specter, then a quick cutaway to Ben staring at her butt. He would be teased mercilessly until the day he died.

Did Clan Persia have a microchip that he could implant in his brain to help him avoid doing stupid things? Maybe. But those types of chips were just as illegal as nanobots. Best to not commit too many crimes before finishing his secondary schooling.

His med-kit was still splayed out on the ground. There was plenty here to suit him: a scalpel, a DNA testing kit, and the medscanner. Plenty else — syringes, medigel, an antidote synthesizer — was more suited for exploration, but fascinated Ben nonetheless.

“That Specter in the basement,” Ben started, trying to think of the best way to phrase his thoughts. He wanted an answer, but he was afraid of the answer, too. “It was a really dark orange. Almost red. That was . . . um, highly unusual, right?”

“Highly unusual.”

Ben shook the follow-up questions. If it was important, someone in Clan Athens would analyze the video feeds. He trusted his clan. “It’s interesting, the way they feed. Don’t you think?”

“It depends on who they are feeding on.”

Ben smiled and looked up. “That’s kind of funny. In a morbid way.”

Seamus opened his mouth, then shut it just as quickly. It looked to Ben like Seamus was just a little bit embarrassed.

“Well, I’m going to perform an, uh, expedited field autopsy,” Ben said, changing the subject for the Historian’s sake. “I’ll scan her ID tag into the medscanner to see if there’s any information stored. She should have some medical records — Clan Athens pings new information to the CPU databases every twelve hours, so even without an available network out here, I should get a relatively good idea of her history.”

“I will supervise the procedure,” he said.

Ben grabbed the ID card and slid it across the medscanner’s card reader. It instantly brought up her information on the little touchscreen. “Janet Walker,” he read aloud. “Age forty-seven. Clan Athens. Married. One child. Research director at . . . huh.”

“Go on.”

Ben ran a finger across the screen, expecting more pages of medical notes. Instead, he got black bars. He’d never seen something like this on a medical chart. “All other information is redacted.”

Cleo returned from the Tumbler, holding her hand out in front of her to shield Mrs. Walker from her sight. “Well, the kids were thoroughly impressed by my storytelling skills, but they’re swarming Skye now because they mistakenly think she’s the hero.”

“You are too talented at storytelling for your own good,” Seamus noted.

Cleo wrinkled her nose at him. “Was that sarcasm?”

Ben laughed, watching her move her hand like a shield as she stepped around the woman’s body. “Don’t tell me after what you just went through, you’re still squeamish about this.”

“I’ve got a job to do right now,” she said. “I brought up the wires, and now I’m going to do what Clan Persia does best.”

Ben watched her walk inside the building, curious. He turned to ask Seamus whether it was a good idea to let her work alone inside the building, but stopped when he saw where Seamus’s eyes were. Seamus turned to Ben; Ben raised an eyebrow.

For a fraction of a second, the Historian’s normally stoic face broke; he looked away. “You were saying about the corpse?”

“I don’t have any records on Mrs. Walker at all,” Ben said. He opened the DNA testing kit, grabbing one of the card-shaped strips. He grabbed the scalpel, then looked down at the objects in his hands. “OK, I’m going to need your help for a moment.”

“I shouldn’t. I’m expected to observe whenever possible.”

“Well . . . see, the problem is I can’t do a surface scrape for DNA because the Specter attack affects a victim’s skin. So I need a blood sample, and the more careful I am swabbing the blood, the more accurate our DNA sample will be. How about you just hold this strip of paper for me? Please?”

Seamus looked around, then walked over and grabbed the little white testing strip.

“Good. Hold it right there.” Ben reached into the kit and grabbed a cotton swab. He held out the woman’s hand and very carefully ran the tip of the scalpel across one bubbling vein below her knuckles. He pressed down on her gray hand to apply pressure, using the swab to gently dab at the blood. He put the scalpel into an empty glass container on the bottom row of the medkit. When he closed the container, the sterilization process began, cleaning the blade.

“OK, thank you,” Ben said. “I’ll just take that back now. Thanks.” He carefully took the strip and ran the swab of blood across the surface, leaving a red streak. His hand shook a little, and it took a moment for him to understand why: he was excited. This was a field autopsy. There were Athenians who never in their whole lives had this opportunity.

If only he could get at that redacted medical information . . .

“OK,” he said, grabbing the medscanner. Its DNA testing procedure had been simplified so any technology-wary Athenian could do it: a strip reader on the side of the machine and a simple touchscreen program:

BEGIN

TEST

PURGE

Ben hit BEGIN and inserted the strip into the slit in the bottom of the medscanner. The machine gobbled up the card. The “Test” button turned green. Ben pressed it. The device grew warm in Ben’s hand so he set it down and stood up, stretching his legs.

“Has it been dead long?” Seamus asked.

“She. And I don’t think so. Mrs. Walker’s body is still stiff. Rigor mortis usually dissipates within 48 hours. We’ll know more in a few moments.”

“Will your immediate superiors question performing an autopsy?”

“Eh.” Ben leveled his hand in the air, tipping it left and right. He thought about his Secondary school teachers — they might be annoyed that he was breaking protocol. But his parents? Oh, his parents would be downright excited. And knowing that made Ben excited, anxious to tell them all about it. “Athenian instructors are typically pretty lenient about breaking rules in the name of scientific inquiry.”

“I’m aware.”

Ben’s breath caught in his throat. “Right. Well. I don’t condone breaking the rules or anything.” Seamus said nothing. Ben felt an urge to continue, glancing down the DNA testing kit in the vain hope that it was finished. It wasn’t. “I mean, um, you have to admit that it would be nice if Parliament let us study the Specters more in-depth. We know so little.”

“Do you believe studying them will change anything?” Seamus asked. It sounded to Ben as if the Historian’s tone had just a hint of an edge to it.

“Never mind. This DNA test will give us good gen,” Ben said. He scratched the back of his head. “Every little bit of information helps, no matter how trivial.”

“What do you expect to find?” Seamus asked. The question surprised Ben. The Historian sounded curious now.

“Well, depending on the results, we might be able to determine if that Sebecus Specter was her killer, or if it was something else. Mrs. Walker’s skin might have been able to tell us, too, but there’s a real risk of contamination. In her blood, though, we should get a pretty solid breakdown of how fast the cellular breakdown occurred. We might even be able to match up her family tree.”

“That excites you.”

“Well, I do find DNA experiments exciting. We’ve come a long way to understanding genetics. It’s saved our species more than a couple times.”

The device beeped. Ben reached down and picked it up. Where the BEGIN button had been, now there was simply a SEND button. Ben pressed it and tapped the side of his glasses to turn his comm speaker on. “Reza, I’m sending a DNA sample to the Tumbler. Can you please bring it up on Cleo’s console for me?”

“OK,” the boy answered after a moment.

Ben hit the PURGE button. The device spit the testing strip out, sending it floating onto the woman’s body. Ben reached down and picked it up, tossing it away from her. It would degrade fully within a week.

“You’re respectful of the dead,” Seamus noted.

“Uh . . . I suppose. I respect who they were. Death is just another part of life, after all. And something tells me Mrs. Walker isn’t done sharing her secrets with us just yet.”

They walked into the Tumbler. The kids were gathered around Skye, who’d taken a seat near the weapons locker in the rear. Her Xenoshield batteries were sitting in one of the charging ports next to the little medical station, and her rifle sat on her lap. Gabriel was sitting at one of the computer consoles near the front, watching the kids with a smile. He seemed, in Ben’s opinion, to be a pretty nice guy. Not too bossy, but willing to offer his educated opinion. Ben liked that.

If only he hadn’t panicked during the Specter attack. His terror had been recorded. The word “Run” repeated over and over . . . it had been a wonder Skye had kept her cool at all. But she had, he reminded himself. She would be a hero in her clan. He sighed. She would definitely get the choice of boyfriends after word spread.

“Tell us about it coming through the machine,” Wei urged, crossing her legs so she could be as close to Skye as possible without actually sitting on her feet.

“How many times do you want to hear it?” Skye snapped.

“At least twice more,” Tahlia said, serious.

“Tahlia, how about you come help me with this DNA sample?” Ben asked. “I’m sure Skye could use a breather.”

“Aw, Ben, DNA samples are so booooooooooring,” she said, stumbling her way over to Cleo’s console like a zombie.

“Boring?” he asked. “Boring? How can you possibly say ribonucleic acids are boring?”

She glared at him. “How about I go outside instead? There’s a species of herb near the fence with some really neat properties. Mimosa pudica rojo.”

“How about you stay here,” he murmured, searching the holoscreen console for some kind of navigation button. It was set to Map mode, pinpointing their location near a 3D topography of the mountains. “Better yet, how about you get Reza to help me with this.”

“Reza!” Tahlia shouted. “Come over here!”

“I could have done that.”

“Then you should have.”

He sighed, watching Reza stumble over like a zombie as well. “If I help you with this, will you please ask Skye to tell the story again?”

“Fine, yes,” Ben said. He held out his hands helplessly at the holoscreen. “Just please get me to the DNA sample I sent here.”

Reza leaned over the console, pressing the little icon on the touchscreen that looked like an old-fashioned mailbox. Ben inhaled through his nose and caught the scent of Reza’s body odor. The boy had decided to live up to the old Clan Persia stereotype, forgetting to apply deodorant. Microorganisms were breaking down lipids in the boy’s armpit sweat, causing the odor. They could be killed with a triclosan compound applied once per week — hardly an inconvenience, in Ben’s opinion. But then again, the boy was thirteen. Ben clearly remembered the terrifying, awkward ordeal that was the dawn of his teenage years.

“Cleo likes to use her own icons,” Reza explained. “She changes the settings on every computer she uses because she’s a butthead. There. Now will you ask Skye?”

Ben turned to Skye, shrugging helplessly.

“Come sit over here,” she told the Persian boy. “I’ll show you how my rifle works.”

“. . . And I’m stuck here looking at DNA codes,” Tahlia said, crossing her arms.

“Just look,” Ben said. He ran his finger across the holoscreen, moving and rotating the DNA chain. The computer began automatically breaking it down. “Incredible. Mrs. Walker is a relative of yours! And look: see these mutations?” On the DNA chain, three red links were interspersed with the remaining green ones. The computer increased their size, pulling them apart so they floated in front of Ben’s face as big as butter knives. “Unknown origin. Three isn’t much, though. From what we’ve learned from other . . . um, victims . . . the mutations can get much worse than this. It’s almost like acute radiation syndrome.”

Gabriel, who’d been keeping his distance at the other console, leaned in to look. Ben obliged, leaning out of the way and zooming in one specific mutation. “What does the mutation do?” Gabriel asked.

“I can’t say with certainty,” Ben answered grimly. He pursed his lips. “It’s against the law to perform any tests on Specters, so . . .” He caught himself, clearing his throat. “Uh, it’s not a bad law. It’s just unfortunate because you can’t really capture one and there are so many precautions taken now that casualties are rare, and even then . . .” He stopped, not knowing where he was going or what he was saying.

Skye snickered. “He’s saying he doesn’t like your rules, Parliamentarian.”

“No! No. That’s not it. I’m just saying it would be nice to know more. Know thy enemy.”

Gabriel returned to the seat at the opposite console. “I don’t make the laws.”

“You will someday,” Skye said. Her tone was threatening, as if she already knew his future. Ben watched her expertly attach a spare battery to her VR rifle. Clan Sparta was notoriously neurotic about everything. It disappointed him that Skye exhibited the same distrust, although it didn’t surprise him.

But maybe if she just got to know Ben, she would at least see that he was a good guy who exhibited relatively few sinister tendencies. He also knew a lot about buildings, which he thought made him a little more interesting than a lot of his peers who spent all of their time in labs . . .

He shook his head, clearing the thoughts. Maybe, he pondered, the nanobots were making his teenage hormones even more imbalanced than normal.

“Ben, what’s that?” Tahlia asked, pointing to one of the highlighted genetic mutations on the top of the holoscreen.

“Progeria,” Ben said. He reached out with his finger, fumbling with the holographic display until it zoomed in on the specific DNA mutation. “It’s a rare disorder that causes accelerated aging. Given Mrs. Walker’s age, we can state confidently that she wasn’t born with this genetic mutation. It was caused by the Specter as it passed through her.”

“So that’s why she looks so . . .” Gabriel left it hanging there.

Ben nodded. “Partly. Again, we don’t know for sure. And typically, Progeria is a condition whose effects take years to kill the victim. It ages you prematurely. The abnormally-shaped nucleus —”

“Helloooooo!”

Ben started at the sound of Cleo’s voice coming through the speakers above the screen. His hand fumbled with the holoscreen. “Um. Hello? Hello?”

“Hellooooo? Anyone there?”

“Yes!” Ben called in the general direction of the speakers. “Hello? I don’t know how to answer. Why can’t she hear me?”

“Reza, get your butt back to your station!” Cleo shouted.

Reza got up from where he’d been sitting in front of Skye. He sighed heavily, pressing the cat icon on the console’s touchscreen. Ben had no hypothesis for why Cleo had changed the comm program’s icon to a cat. “Go ahead.”

“I’m done.”

Ben looked at Gabriel. They both looked at Skye. “You’re . . . can you explain?” Ben called into what he assumed was the communication device’s mic.

“OK first off: stop yelling. Just talk normal. Second off: the solar panel circuits are fixed. The supply depot is currently recharging its big, fat battery and I’m running electrical tests right now.”

It seemed impossible to be true. They’d accomplished their mission. “Are you sure?” Ben asked.

“I’m calling you from the console in the depot. So obviously I’m sure. Gimme fifteen more minutes to run a diagnostic on this stupid door locking system and we’ll be done. Literally. Done.”

“We did it,” Gabriel said, smiling.

“We won?” Tahlia asked. She looked at Seamus, who had taken a seat across from Skye. “Did we win?”

“I’m not sure you can win a Proving,” Seamus said. He cleared his throat. “But by all indications, you have successfully met your objectives.”

The kids cheered. Ben, caught in the excitement, cheered a little too. Skye cracked a smile, meeting his eyes. She cracked a smile. That just made the whole adventure worth it.

“What’s the next step?” Gabriel asked the Historian. “Do we just head home?”

“That’s not my decision to make,” Seamus said. He looked at the floor. “Your Coterie decides when to leave.”

“We’ll check and double-check to make sure everything is functioning properly,” Skye said. “Then, tomorrow morning, we’ll leave.”

“What?!” Cleo’s voice crackled through the speakers. Behind Ben, Gabriel’s response was the same. “Tell me the good soldier is kidding. Someone please tell me she didn’t just tell us we’re spending the night out here.”

“I don’t want to spend the night out here,” Wei told Gabriel. She sniffled. “I want to go home, Gabe. You just said we were finished so why can’t we go home?”

“Skye, we can’t stay out here,” Gabriel said, grabbing Wei’s hand. “It’s too dangerous.”

Skye reached out her hand and punched the door lock. The Tumbler door slid open. “Go outside and find the sun.”

Ben, curious, followed Gabriel and Wei outside. Tahlia followed behind him, bumping into his back as she hopped off the Tumbler.

The sun was gone. Only its dull orange glow remained, radiating from behind the mountains to the west. But over their heads was a much more frightening sight: the Ring, looming out there in space circling Earth like some cosmic racetrack of swirling reds and oranges. If it was just ice and rock, it would be beautiful.

If it was just ice and rock.

“It’s so easy to forget about it,” Ben said, mesmerized. “You just . . . get used to it.”

Skye joined them, flanked by Reza and the quiet Spartan boy named Cassidy. The kids craned their heads. Reza lost his balance and fell back a step, eliciting a giggle from Tahlia and Wei. Reza smiled and did it again, getting the same reaction. Ben watched the interaction, happy to see it. Tahlia’s studies took precedence too often. When Ben was her age, he’d been obsessed with building blocks. He’d built towers and buildings and then put little figures inside the buildings and imagine how much they loved his designs. In school, he made friends with a boy from Clan Persia and the two of them started designing their own building blocks using the 3D printer on their school campus.

But Tahlia didn’t have many toys. She had books and a few favorite holo-shows she watched in the evening. Friends came over, but they were all from Clan Athens. No friends from the other clans. No friends who were just regular citizens. It upset Ben. Even though the primary schools were fully integrated — clans and free citizens alike — some clan members just couldn’t fully shed their distrust. And over what? Thousands of years of antagonism and “they started it” justifications for aggression.

Even now, Skye pulled Cassidy close to her. Protective. As if the boy was in danger around the others. As if the Ring discriminated. But the Ring wasn’t a sentient creature. It was composed of trillions of chunks of ice and rock and trillions of Specters. Every collision inside the Ring loosed hundreds of them, casting them from the Ring in every direction. A Specter was just as likely to disappear into space as it was to land on Earth.

“We lost track of time,” Gabriel said.

“We didn’t,” Skye said.

“So why didn’t you warn us?” Gabriel asked, exasperated. He waved his arms in the air. “We could have helped Cleo repair the array! We could have left hours ago!”

“You don’t know anything about repairing electric circuits,” Skye said. “The Persian does.”

“I could have at least handed her a wrench,” Gabriel said. The kids laughed. He looked surprised by the response. “I just mean we could have helped.”

“You’ve helped enough,” Skye said. “When we were in danger, you screamed in my ear. That’s how free citizens help.”

“Oh, right. Finally! Here comes the Clan Sparta holier than thou verbal tirade. Go ahead, Spartan. Tell me how superior you are and how useless everyone else is.”

“Gabe,” Wei said, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Don’t fight.”

Skye jammed a finger in front of Gabriel. They were the same height, but just the way Skye stood made her look more intimidating. She was in a fighting stance; Gabriel’s weight was on his left leg, pulled back, as if he expected a punch to be thrown his way. Ben had to fight the urge to take a step back, too. “I read your file. You’re a freaking poet. You study literature and you write poetry and everybody fawns over you because your mommy is a bigshot in Parliament. Nothing in your file even suggests you’re capable of helping us in any way out here. You’re a part of this Coterie because someone bent the rules and got you transferred with us.”

Seamus hopped out of the Tumbler, stepping beside Ben. He had his arms pulled behind his back — if he felt as uncomfortable as Ben over the whole situation, his body language didn’t show it. Maybe documenting thousands of clan conflicts became numbing.

“We don’t need to fight,” Ben said. “The mission is complete.”

“You know why the clan wars ended?” Gabriel asked, his voice rising. “Because everybody got sick of your crap! All of the clans always fighting over the same crap humans have fought over since the dawn of time. Clan Sparta bombed a city for a month and then showed up and claimed they were the people’s saviors. Then Clan Athens staked a claim on the city and did the same thing. Then Clan Persia. And all the while, the people in the city — the survivors, at least — suffered! And finally, humanity got fed up with it!”

“And now you sit around and enjoy the fruits of our labor,” Skye said. “Free citizens sit around and watch their holo-shows and shop and wander around and spend their Basic Income while Clan Sparta mans the guns and keeps the Specters at bay.”

“Please stop fighting!” Wei shouted. Ben felt his heart race. This was escalating too quickly. He had a horrible flashback to his first Proving five years ago. The New Adults had broken down into fighting in just the same way. They had completely forgotten to protect the kids. Had Skye not shot that Specter . . . by Hades, they might all have died.

“I think everything is fine,” Ben offered. “We can still drive back —”

Skye turned and glared at him.

“What exactly do you want from us?” Gabriel asked her, laughing incredulously. “You want us all to spend every waking moment of our lives staring up at the Ring and fretting about the Specters? Wallowing in pity?” He looked around, locking eyes with each of them in turn. “Poverty is eradicated. Literature and arts thrive in every city that remains. Our Phenocyte reactors help advance science and medicine and we’re learning how to expand our Xenoshield systems farther and farther. Things are better than they have ever been in the history of the human race. That’s worth remembering.”

Ben turned to Seamus. They all did, waiting. Finally, Seamus cleared his throat. “Compared to past societies, modern social and economic conditions are vastly superior.”

Skye burst into laughter. “I guess we’ll have to take your word for it, Historian. Since you’re the only one with access to the Historical Archives.”

“A safeguard to ensure that History is preserved in a political vacuum —”

“Shut up,” Skye snapped. She turned back to Gabriel. “Maybe you’re confused because you weren’t with us during our first Proving . . .”

“That wasn’t my choice,” Gabriel said.

“We don’t travel at night. It’s insane.”

“It’s not your call,” Gabriel said. “We vote. That’s how the Coterie makes decisions.”

Skye’s thick pink lips pulled back into a frustrated smile. She moved her jaw, grinding her teeth. Ben imagined the sound they might make if he was standing closer: wet, porcelain-like friction. He nervously rubbed his chin, thinking of some way to restore at least a little order.

“We . . .” He stopped, thinking quick. What would satisfy a Spartan? “A vote would be the best way to follow protocol.” Skye turned to him. Seeing the anger in her green eyes unnerved him but he continued: “When we were thirteen, uh, on our first Proving, the New Adults failed because they bickered and nearly got everyone killed. It was only Skye’s bravery that saved us. We would distinguish ourselves if we showed that we learned something from that experience.”

He looked to Seamus, hoping the Historian could at the very least recognize a pretty darned obvious “help me!” facial expression. Seamus studied Ben for a moment, then cleared his throat again. “Consideration for additional commendations is dependent on exigent circumstances.”

“What he means,” Ben said slowly, “is that Parliament will take into consideration the fact that we destroyed a Specter and the fact that we initiated a vote to make a crucial decision.” He smiled, hoping it looked genuine. It felt awkward on his face, as if it knew it didn’t belong. “We might even get a medal of valor.”

Skye said nothing. Gabriel seemed equally uninterested in adding his two cents. The kids, predictably under the circumstances, looked more than a little lost.

“Well?” Ben asked anxiously. “I mean, it makes sense to follow protocol, right?”

“We were told not to take any risks,” Skye said, glaring at Gabriel. “Your mother told us that. Driving at night is the worst kind of risk.”

“Staying out here is bad, too,” Gabriel said. He shook his head and sighed. “We screwed up. We lost track of time.”

“It wasn’t our fault,” Skye said. The edge in her voice softened. “This was supposed to be a routine Proving with a simple task, not a Specter hunt. The road was in horrible condition. No one could have expected we would find what we found.”

“Fortune assigns the day,” Gabriel whispered.

Ben sighed. Neither option seemed all that good. “Tahlia, go get Cleo. We’re holding a vote.”

Chapter 13: Cleopatra Kashani

Clan Persia

AGNI. That was going to be her name. And she was definitely a “she” as opposed to a “he.” AGNI’s main multi-optic component port was a female port, meaning that in order to connect her to any sort of diagnostic reader, a cable would have to be inserted. In techie terms, the cable had a “male” component that slid into the port’s “female” component. It was just the sort of awkward lingo that Clan Persia prided itself on.

“And so that’s why you’re a girl,” Cleo told her. “I know it sounds stupid, but you deserve a personality. You’re an amazing device. And you’re kinda like me: I can’t read people’s faces, either. But you can distinguish features and shadows and layers, and that’s pretty much all a robot needs.”

AGNI hovered near Cleo’s head, waiting for a recognizable command. She was currently shaped in her “standard” form, which was slightly human-shaped: a human torso with a little square head and two eyes (one LED light, currently off, and a small pan-optic HD camera). At the end of one arm was a pair of pincers and at the end of the other was a heating coil.

Perfect for very delicately repairing a pair of exposed wires on the northernmost solar panel. The last piece of this weird, weird puzzle. To get there, AGNI’s three little high-speed propellers at her base whirred while her six-axis gyro system kept her upright. Inside, her little ultra-efficient 7-ION battery (Clan Persia invention) kept her running while simultaneously sucking extra juice from the little solar panels on her exterior. And that wasn’t even the best part. The absolute best part was AGNI could be commanded to transform into an entirely new shape simply by rearranging her minibox structure. Goodbye, heating coil . . . hello, screwdriver. Goodbye, oddly unsettling humanoid shape . . . hello, snake shape.

All in all: pretty awesome.

“I have an idea,” Cleo said as she tied off the last wire underneath the southernmost solar panel. She pushed the wire back inside the small black elements box. She closed the box, running her finger along the seal to ensure there wasn’t any damage — AGNI had pried it open in a moment of callous disregard for the delicate nature of a decades-old solar circuit.

“What’s the idea, you ask?” Cleo smiled, unlocking the solar power box and pressing the power button. All six status lights glowed green. Such a soothing color. She used her brain chip to recall the solar array’s schematics, double-checking the circuits behind the power box’s panel. A green circuit diagram popped up in her right contact lens, along with a white pointer cursor. The chip in her brain, sensing her biofeedback, moved the cursor to the left-hand side of the diagram, effortlessly magnifying the battery pathway. “See, I figure that lady was chased here by a Specter, and she actually managed to unlock the door. But weather damage screwed up the door’s locking mechanism! So she smashed the locking panel, which probably sounds like a good idea if you’re from Clan Athens or Clan Sparta. But the computer system probably just assumed it was a vandal, so it tried going into lockdown. But instead of going into lockdown, it just accidentally fried its circuits and shorted the whole system.”

AGNI hovered near Cleo’s head, watching through her little camera. She reminded Cleo of BEE-BO 9X, the unfortunately named service bot in the critically acclaimed holo-flick series Apocalypse Earth. That bot had had a square head, a square body and a couple extra arms to hold pretty much anything it wanted (in this fictional universe, weight wasn’t an issue). BEE-BO 9X also had been programmed with killer AI. Totally illegal AI. AI smart enough to compute a dozen different sarcastic quips for any situation.

“I know I’m right.” Cleo stood up and stretched her sore legs. She walked slowly around the massive solar panels, double-checking the weatherproof (“weatherproof”) status screens to make sure they were all gathering energy. “But you gotta remember these emergency supply depots don’t get much love. This facility is old. And they’re using pretty old fiber-optic cables, obviously not the sort of superconductor stuff you see in the city. So it was bound to happen eventually. It just happened . . . at a really bad time.”

Something inside AGNI made a clicking noise.

“Yup. It’s a bummer. Scary, too. Being so close . . .”

“Cleo?”

Cleo spun around. The Athenian girl, Tahlia, was standing in the doorway that led back downstairs to the first floor.

“Who are you talking to? What is that? Should I get help?”

“I’m talking to AGNI. This is AGNI. No, you should not get help.” She waited, but the girl didn’t move from the doorway. Cleo’s facial recognition software identified the look on her face: curious. “You can come take a look at her, if you want. She’s just a maintenance bot. She won’t hurt you.”

Tahlia stepped closer. Hesitant, like a good little Athenian experiencing the wonders of modern technology. That was the difference between Clan Persia and everyone else. In Clan Persia, new technology was celebrated. Everyone else was wary about it, as if it might turn around and bite them. As if AGNI could bite. Maybe after Cleo tinkered with her a bit.

“Want to see something cool?” Cleo asked. When Tahlia nodded, she turned to AGNI. “AGNI, mode two.”

AGNI’s fans slowed. She lowered to the rooftop, and then began to disassemble. It was a slow process; each one of the thousands of pinhead-sized cubes making up her body moved, switched position, and transformed her body into one very long, narrow snake-like object. The camera was positioned in the front, and the pincers had detached at their base and separated. Even the fans had separated, broken down, and transformed into sections of the body, carefully disassembling the motor so its parts could be used elsewhere.

All in all: totally awesome.

“Why did it do that?” Tahlia asked, bending down to examine her. She looked curious, but not particularly impressed by AGNI’s flexibility. The facial recognition program confirmed it, isolating the girl’s facial expression and alerting Cleo to the distinct lack of interest.

“So she can sneak into tight spaces to make repairs,” Cleo said proudly. What was with this kid? How did she not see how great AGNI was? “See, robots like AGNI used to be really, really good at squeezing into tight spaces that humans can’t fit inside. Watch.” She used her VRacelet to send a command to the robot. A handful of miniature treads — now positioned underneath — slowly moved AGNI across the cement rooftop. “AGNI can rearrange herself cause she’s made up of these little cubes with billions of microscopic computer chips inside them. And I can form new designs, too! All I have to do is make sure she follows some basic algorithms . . . and . . .” She stopped, looking down at Tahlia. “You don’t care, do you?”

Tahlia shrugged. “It’s neat, I guess.”

“It’s amazing!” Cleo cried out, unable to contain her excitement. “AGNI was decommissioned because one of the fans was jammed and she needed a memory wipe and I totally got it working and it only took an hour! And then she squeezed in between those giant solar panels and replaced a faulty wire I could never reach in a million years! It’s a shape-shifting robot!” Out of breath, she stopped, waiting for some kind of reaction from the Athenian girl. “Really? This isn’t cool at all?”

“I guess. Everyone’s doing a vote. You need to come down now.”

Cleo watched her walk back to the rooftop doorway. “I bet you’d be excited if I had a petri dish full of bacteria,” she murmured. “AGNI, mode one.”

The robot’s little blocks shifted again, back to the familiar torso-and-head shape. The treads detached, transforming into the circular fans. Three reassembled without difficulty, but the fourth got stuck, clicking again and again as if begging Cleo for help. She bent down and snapped the fan attachment in place. Immediately, the fans whirred to life. AGNI finished her metamorphosis in mid-air by clicking her little toaster-shaped head into place, each little cube knowing exactly where to go.

“AGNI, follow.”

Cleo went downstairs, nodding at the blinking green power light on the emergency console sitting near the front door. “We did that, AGNI. Never forget, my precious little pet.”

Somewhere inside her little X029 computer chips, AGNI was obeying the vague order (“Never forget!”), storing the memory coming in from her camera. And that, in Cleo’s opinion, was going to be the funnest part about AGNI: learning all of her sweet little tricks.

Outside, it seemed as if half a day had passed since Cleo had been on the roof. The sky looked so much darker, and now only a few orange-tinted clouds were hanging around the western mountains. Then her contacts adjusted, increasing light sensitivity. Oh, right — no wonder she hadn’t noticed the afternoon sun dipping. It was so easy to get used to these special lenses that she hadn’t even realized it was getting late.

Above the northern mountains, the Ring emitted a hazy red glow that bled into the sky, hiding any early stars. One big red washer, that’s all it was. A problem waiting for a solution. Unlike a lot of her classmates, Cleo took an optimistic outlook when it came to the Ring. Clan Persia had perfected the Xenoshield systems. The Xenoshields protected the cities. Specters couldn’t get past the shields. That was about as close to a win as could be expected, under the circumstances.

Everyone was standing outside the Tumbler.

“Family meeting?” Cleo asked.

“We’re voting,” said Gabriel, “on whether or leave tonight or tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, that’s an easy one,” Cleo said. “Tonight. Tonight, tonight, tonight.”

“If we leave tonight, we risk putting the premier’s son in danger,” said the Spartan girl. The FR program registered anger. Of course, in Cleo’s experience, most Spartans always looked angry. Even when they were eating, they looked angry. They probably danced angry. They probably watched funny movies with a frown.

“We can’t stay out here,” Gabriel said. “Not with the possibility of other Specters nearby.”

“You’re asking me to drive in the dark,” Skye said, “on a road that hasn’t been maintained in decades, through over a hundred kilometers of wilderness. Without any satellite backing us up. If we stay here, we can leave tomorrow in the morning when we know it will be safe.”

“This is insane,” Gabriel said. A green box appeared on his furrowed brow, then his narrowed eyes and tense cheek muscles. Cleo’s FR program determined that he was frustrated. Duh, she thought, using her VRacelet to turn the program off. The green box disappeared.

“We’re losing the last bit of light arguing about this,” Ben said. “Let’s put it to a vote. Uh, do the kids have to vote in this manner?”

They all looked at Seamus. He cleared his throat, which was apparently a nervous habit (and one that seemed of particular interest to the Athenian dude, Cleo noticed). “Under the circumstances, a vote by only the New Adults would be appropriate and binding.”

“Good. Those in favor of leaving tonight, raise your hand.” Gabriel raised his hand. Cleo raised hers. She looked to Ben. His hands were on his hips. “All right,” Gabriel said slowly, “those in favor of leaving tomorrow morning, raise your hand.”

Skye raised her hand. Ben half-raised his hand, looking down at the ground.

“Ben!” Tahlia whispered. “Why don’t you want to leave?”

Gabriel rubbed his face with both hands. “I don’t believe it. I thought Clan Athens was full of rational scientists! Don’t they breed the idiocy out of you?”

“Benjamin’s lineage has been responsible for remarkable advances in gene therapy and stem cell production,” the Historian pointed out.

“You have to break the tie,” Gabriel told him.

“What?!” Cleo exclaimed. She had to fight the incredible urge to run back into the supply depot and lock the door behind her. It would be perfect: she could spend the rest of her life surrounded by electronics and old robots and plenty of spare parts. And a computer console, to boot. What did she need these weirdoes for? “We’re gonna put the tiebreaker vote in the hands of the only person here who’s even more socially awkward than my brother?”

“Hey!” Reza said, punching her in the thigh. He cried out as his soft, fleshy fist connected with the spidersilk weave.

“As honored as I am,” said the Historian, looking around, “I’m bound by our code to not interfere. I watch. I record. I provide historical context when necessary. Beyond that, I —”

“The Proving is over,” Gabriel said. “We accomplished our task. You said it yourself. You’re no longer bound by your official duties. You can join our Coterie under Parliament law three-three-four-seven.”

Cleo blinked. She looked around, first to the kids who were each lurking behind their older siblings, then to the encroaching forest just beyond the fence surrounding the emergency depot’s perimeter. It was getting dark enough now that her contact lenses’ light-enhancement function no longer was effective. The kinda-nice orange glow of the sun was being replaced entirely by the dull, creepy red glow of the Ring. “Look, I’m not scared or anything, but the sun has set . . .”

“Is what he says true?” Ben asked the Historian. “Can you vote?”

Seamus opened his mouth, trying out different vowels before finally finding the right words. “It’s possible for a Historian to join a Coterie. It has happened in the past, under certain situations. The most recent was fifteen years ago, during a rescue operation of a mag-lev shipping transport to Neo York —”

“So vote,” Gabriel said. “Break the tie.”

The Historian looked around. He was good at making eye contact, even meeting eyes with Skye. Cleo wondered if the poor fool didn’t realize just how much she hated him. Or maybe he didn’t care. Cleo considered the possibility that he was actually a trained spy or assassin, then tossed the notion aside. Seamus was almost as awkward as Ben — too awkward to be hiding super powers.

“I vote . . . we stay the night.”

“We’re doomed,” Cleo said, throwing her hands up in the air. “We’re going to die out here.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I don’t understand, Seamus. At least . . . at least give us a reason.”

“The Spartan is clearly a good driver,” he said, clearing his throat. “But even so, she wouldn’t be able to travel more than ten kilometers per hour under night conditions on a poor road if there is Specter activity nearby. Under similar situations, it has historically been safer to spend the night in a secure location.”

Skye, triumphant, widened her eyes at Gabriel and waved a hand at the Historian. It was just about the most un-Spartan-like thing Cleo had ever seen.

Seamus cleared his throat again. “Although to be fair, both options are dangerous.”

“Fine,” Gabriel said. “So what do we do? Do we stay in the Tumbler or do we hide away in the supply depot? Where exactly should we die?”

“Geez,” Cleo said. “And I thought I was melodramatic. Obviously we take the roof of the supply depot.”

“Why?” Skye asked, turning her head sharply in Cleo’s direction. Cleo flinched.

“Because it’s the safest place.”

“Um, she’s right,” Ben said. “The roof gives us cover. And leverage. The Manteidos Specters are the only ones that can fly. From the roof, we’ll have a vantage point to keep watch. We’ll see them coming from at least five kilometers away.”

“The Tumbler has shields,” Skye said.

“Yeah but they drain the batteries fast,” Cleo said. “I can link one of the spare personal shield systems to the depot’s solar battery and rig it to the doorway.” She ran a hand through her hair, considering the possibilities. “Oh wow that would be so wild. It would last all night! Maybe we can survive this.”

Gabriel just shook his head, turning away and looking out across the old empty lot, toward the forest beyond the fence. It was dark now, save for just a hint of red coming from the glow of the Ring far above. Cleo’s light enhancement program switched to night vision; the diodes in her lenses outlined all of the objects in a puke-green color. Fitting, under the circumstances.

“There’s no time left to argue,” Skye said. “Let’s grab provisions and get up to the roof.”

From somewhere inside the forest, there came a deep, mournful moan.

“Now,” Skye added.

Chapter 14: Benjamin Redcloud

Clan Athens

The roof was surrounded by a four-foot-high rampart made of refurbished steel, complete with old rusted gutters to filter rainwater. The solar panels, in fact, could be positioned — thanks to a hack by Cleo — to provide some additional cover by reclining on their hinges. If they wanted to, they could probably sleep safe and sound.

But no one was particularly interested in sleeping, least of all Ben.

He found Wei, Tahlia, Reza and Cleo downstairs, inside the building. Reza was using the old emergency computer console. It had a holoscreen and two touchscreens but only one was turned on, currently being used for a simplistic chess-style strategy game that moved character pieces around on a 3D playing field. Character pieces that wielded ridiculously large axes and swords.

“Um, is that connected to the same battery power we’re using for your shield contraption?” he asked Cleo.

She sat up. She’d been lying next to the entrance to the staircase, using a saw from the Tumbler to cut a hole in the wall big enough for her strange robot to fit through. The thing gave Ben the chills. It was a robot with little arms, then with a simple word command it transformed into a snake-like device that could crawl inside a hole. It seemed to react to Cleo in a human-like way. Not a robot-like way. Not a dog-like way.

And that was just a little too much for him. Ben liked his automatons acting like automatons. Mixing chemicals. Printing food. That sort of stuff.

But Gabriel’s sister, on the other hand . . .

Wei was on her knees beside Cleo, peering into the hole, searching for the robot.

“What’s it doing in there?” she asked.

“Oh, you know . . . if I programmed her right, she should be finding me a green wire that I can splice.” Cleo stood up and dusted off her hands. “And yes, professor, that computer is hooked up to the depot’s battery. No, you don’t have to worry. It’s a low-drainer. The battery’s in good shape, save for a few small underground leaks.”

Ben nodded, deciding not to ask for any details. He trusted Cleo. She knew her way around electronics. Her snarky attitude didn’t exactly help during the tense situations, but he gave her the benefit of the doubt that she wasn’t a jerk. Her tone suggested otherwise from time to time, even when her actions didn’t line up with that assessment. She was just a little awkward.

Aren’t we all at this age, he thought.

Ben peered around one of the shelves full of spare parts. Tahlia was walking down the aisle, shining a little LED flashlight across the shelves. “I’m going to try and convince Tahlia to get some sleep. Would you like me to take Reza up, too?”

Cleo raised an eyebrow. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. I just . . . you know . . . kids.”

“Yeah. Kids.” She smiled. “You’re decent, professor. Reza! Get your butt over here!”

Ben itched the pain in his ear. The girl’s voice had an incredible decibel range. “Maybe we should keep it down. You know, in case . . .”

“The walls are thick,” Cleo said. “That’s why they call this an emergency supply depot. Of course, a shield system would be nice. But one big enough to cover this whole building would require a small Phenocyte reactor. And then you’d have to install some kind of dyno capacitator to maintain the amps.”

“I’m here,” Reza said.

“Go with Ben.”

“I want to finish my game.”

“You want to sleep. You’re tired.”

“Not really.”

“You didn’t sleep last night. Go with Ben.”

Ben looked down, smiling at the boy. “The sky is clear enough that we can see the Ark and the Artemis Bow. I’ll point them out. They’re pretty neat.”

Reza rolled his eyes. Rudely.

“Just go,” Cleo said. “Please.”

“Fine! But my game is saved, so you’d better transfer a copy to your VRacelet.”

“Wonderful.” Now it was Cleo’s turn to roll her eyes. Ben wondered who had picked up the bad habit from whom.

“Come on, Tahlia,” Ben called out.

Tahlia hurried back down the aisle between the shelves of small electronics, holding her hand out and watching it intently. “Ben,” she said excitedly. “Look at this!” She held out her hand, flipping it.

Ben leaned in close, watching the little thing move along Tahlia’s little palm. “Oh. A bug. Wonderful.”

Cleo held up her VRacelet, bathing the little bug in the glow of her touchscreen. “Hmm. We should probably kill it.”

“No!” Tahlia said defensively. “It’s a tapinoma erraticum. An erratic ant. He shouldn’t be in here. Erratic ants like the sun; they’re impossible to find at night.”

“They’re the anti-Specters,” Cleo pointed out.

Tahlia nodded, excited. The ant had given up moving, staying in place on the back of her hand, maybe enjoying the light from Cleo’s VRacelet. It was dark in color and had long, thick antennae and small eyes. “They don’t have stingers because they’re part of the subfamily dolichoderinae . . . so they just produce a defensive chemical compound from their butts.”

“That sounded so scientific until you said the word butts,” Cleo said with a smile.

Tahlia giggled. “It’s true! And erratic ants also construct solariums for their brood. It’s really cool. Ben, we have to save him. We should take him outside.”

“Um, no,” Ben said.

“But he shouldn’t be in here!”

Cleo raised a finger. “For what it’s worth, I think she’s right. It’s a total long shot, but there’s still a danger this critter might chew through the wrong wire. Total total long shot, but you know how paranoid we Persians can get about tech.”

“We’ll open the door,” Ben told Tahlia, “and you can put your hand down and let the ant scurry away and then we’ll shut the door. We’re not going outside, though.”

“That’s fine,” Tahlia said, tailing him to the door. “He’ll find his friends pretty easily. All he has to do is follow the pheromone trail back to his nest. Oh! And some ants can emit special pheromones that confuse enemy ants and make them fight among themselves. Isn’t that neat?”

“Yes,” Ben said. Neater for you, he wanted to add. He hoped someone at her school was taking note of her interest in zoology. She needed some opportunities to get outside the city proper or she’d just end up wandering there herself, in search of whatever elusive wildlife — foxes, rabbits, rats — lived on the edge of the shield.

Or she would go out farther. That scared him. Travel outside the shield was so limited, and only allowed during daylight, and it required a really good reason to go out there. Those were the laws. But some people broke those laws. Some scientists in Clan Athens went out, searching. Collecting. Studying. What was surviving? What was thriving?

Nothing was thriving. The delicate ecosystem outside the shield was barely surviving. Bees constructed their nests high up so they could avoid most of the Specters. Ants built more elaborate tunnels deep down. Larger predators like big cats and wolves had developed the sleeping pattern of a teenager: they hunted in the evening, evading Specters. They slept late into the day when it was safe.

There was more, so much more. But areas far away from the major cities could only be studied via satellite and surveillance drones. The Specters seemed less interested in wildlife the farther away from the shields they got. The insect-like Manteidos Specters only flew when a Spartan surveillance drone was in the air, and it was only to take down the drones.

What if Tahlia wanted more than her school could offer? What if someday she decided to go out and study the world up close?

Ben opened the door a crack, watching his little sister kneel down and place her hand on the ground. The little black ant scurried off and began darting left and right on the ground. Ben lost it in the darkness. He closed the door; Tahlia looked up and smiled. In the artificial LEDX light coming from the bulb over the door, Tahlia’s dimples looked more pronounced. It rolled back her age by five years. She was still just a kid, anxious to get to the park so she could call first dibs on the swing.

Ben pressed a hand down on her soft hair. “Promise me you’ll never go out without someone else,” he said.

“Of course I won’t! That’s dumb, Ben.”

“And make sure you take a Spartan.”

“I’m not going out, Ben. It’s scary out here. At night, at least.”

Cleo and Reza were standing near the entrance to the staircase, taking turns slapping each other’s hands. Ben gave Tahlia a push toward the stairs. “Go with Reza and find Gabriel to get situated for bed. I’ll be up in a second.” He watched them go, then turned to Cleo. “Is the shield set up?”

“Almost.” Cleo slid her finger across her VRacelet’s touchscreen, tapping it a few times until a dark image popped up. Ben leaned in, staring at the gibberish on the screen. It looked like a glowing wiring diagram, with different-colored lines running in every direction. Cleo’s finger moved through the program so impossibly fast that it blurred his vision. “AGNI’s splicing the wires now.”

Ben took a deep breath. There’s nothing to be afraid about, he told himself. He had a scheme, and he needed Cleo’s help. The scheme in his head wasn’t technically destruction of property. It wasn’t technically illegal. After all, he’d done worse. Even now there were thousands of illegal nanobots moving through his bloodstream, “nudging” his body’s natural processes to function as perfectly as possible.

But this. This scheme in his head felt worse, somehow.

“Ms. Walker’s records . . .” he began.

Cleo nodded. “Yup, she’s got records. Lots and lots of records.”

“. . . But they’re all blacked out. So.”

“So.”

Ben sighed. “I guess what I’m saying is . . . I’d like to see her full records.”

Cleo shut off the schematic feed on her VRacelet, opened a new program and tapped her finger on the screen. “Done.”

“It would be just be nice to see if any of the other information . . . what? Done?”

She shrugged. “Well, my hacking program needs to cut through the security measures. But it’s not impossible. I’m running a Wi-Fi connection from the Tumbler right now so I can access its microprocessor.”

Ben was astounded. “That’s incredible. So you can just, sort of, open up the rest of the information? Just like that?”

“Noooooo.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not just like that. It took me a long time to write the code for this cryptography program. It works really well, but it takes time, and I need to constantly adjust the code. That corpse has some top-level redaction in her files, and it’s going to take a while. But yeah, I’m totally gonna crack it for you. And I’m totally gonna enjoy doing it, too.”

“Thank you,” Ben said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest it was an easy process.”

Cleo waved it off. “Could be worse. You could be a Spartan.”

Right, Ben thought. He walked upstairs, opening the door leading to the roof. Everyone was huddled under the tilted solar panels except Skye and her brother. The Spartans were standing near the corner of the building, peering out at the forest beyond the supply depot’s perimeter.

Ben walked with a crouch, feeling a little dizzy. It seemed so dangerous on the roof, but then he peered over the edge and saw the Tumbler. Skye had moved it so it was stationed next to the depot’s front door, aimed toward the road leading back to Neo Berlin. If anyone on watch saw danger coming, everyone could escape to the Tumbler in less than a minute.

Still. Everything seemed to have just a hint of red to it, caused by the red glow of the Ring. There wasn’t really “true” darkness anymore, except in rooms without windows. Sometimes, there were stars, when the Ring’s orbit was nearer the horizon. But even then, the sky along the horizon was a dull red that seemed to bleed upward as if they were living in a snow-globe and someone had place a red light directly underneath.

A hint of the horrors that existed just out of sight.

Reza and Tahlia were arguing about whether the Ring had any redeeming beauty. Tahlia thought it looked cool; Reza thought it looked scary. Wei was somewhere in-between, but seemed to agree with Tahlia that there was something inherently interesting about the occurrence.

“Why don’t they just all fall to Earth?” he asked as Ben sat down beside him. Gabriel was in the process of squeezing all of the sleeping pads together so that everyone could stay under the cover of the solar panels. Seamus, not understanding, sat cross-legged on his sleep pad while Gabriel tugged it closer to the rest of them. Ben thought it was funny; the Historian was so used to being out of everyone’s way that it hadn’t even occurred to him that he should be closer.

“Ben, Reza asked you a question,” Tahlia said.

“Oh. Uh, well, a ring typically needs the pull of another object in order to maintain orbit. Otherwise, you’re right: Earth’s gravity would eventually pull all those trillions of chunks of ice right into our atmosphere. What’s stabilizing the ring are a number of larger chunks of rock that arrived with the Spectral comet. They’re large enough that they exert a gravitational pull. So Earth pulls on the ring, but so do these large satellites.”

“He meant why don’t the Specters leave the Ring,” Tahlia said.

“Oh. We don’t know.” Ben glanced at Gabriel. He didn’t mean to, but he didn’t want to offend the Parliamentarian. “We hypothesize it’s because of the ice crystals observed in the Ring.” Ben moved over, letting Tahlia sit beside him and rest her head on his leg. “Wherever the Specters came from, they brought trillions of chunks of ice and rock with them and they didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter. They didn’t arrive on a crash-course with Earth; gravity pulled them into orbit, forming the ring shape. A dozen thin rings, actually. The ice crystals reflect the sunlight and the energy from the Specters. So you have billions and billions of Specters and trillions and trillions of chunks of ice circling the planet. That’s why the Ring shimmers.”

“Neat,” Wei said.

“Dangerous,” Reza added.

“And so think of the force involved when two big chunks of ice crash into each other,” Ben continued, excited to be sharing his knowledge. “The force is enough to send that Spectral Energy in every direction. Some of the Specters fall to Earth. Scientists can use telescopes to see them inside the Ring.”

“Those explosions are pretty,” Wei said, trying her best to sound like a serious adult. It was cute. Ben looked at Gabriel and saw no embarrassment on the young man’s face. That was good. The girl acted like a Young Adult, in no hurry to grow up. He wished some of her immaturity would rub off on Tahlia.

“You wouldn’t think it’s pretty if they all came down at once,” Reza told her, his voice dropping like he was a movie anti-hero. Maybe he watched too many movies. Or played too many videogames. It seemed like he was more talkative away from his sister, Ben noticed.

Ben lay back on his sleeping bag, staring up at the Ring. Somewhere, a buzzing sound rose up and seemed to echo in the direction of the mountains.

“What’s that?” Reza asked. He sat up anxiously.

“Stillness,” Gabriel whispered. “The cicada’s cry . . . drills into the rocks.”

“He’s right — it’s a bug,” Tahlia said. “A grenade cicada, from the family cicadidae. The sound of their tymbals clicking is amplified inside their hollow abdomens.”

“Gross,” Reza said.

“No, they’re soooo great,” Tahlia told him, that wonder in her voice returning. “They use evaporative cooling to stay cool, kind of like humans sweating only they probably don’t stink as bad as you. And at night, when it’s cool like this, they can actually shiver to enhance the volume of their song. Oh! And every song is unique. And some of the males hide from Specters inside hollow trees and then the click of their tymbals can sound like a boom!”

“That’s great,” Reza said. “You’re smart.”

“How did you learn that?” Ben asked her, not quite sure what to be more worried about: Tahlia’s obsession with disgusting insects hiding from Specters, or Reza’s curious change-of-mind. Tahlia didn’t answer; she was too busy listening to the buzz.

“It’s strange that they’re calling out,” she said. “They must be desperate to mate, if they’re willing to risk attracting a Specter.”

“Can’t we just kill all of the Specters already?” Reza whined. “They’re really bugging us.”

Wei snickered.

Ben didn’t get the joke. “We would need a VR cannon set up in space. And we would need lots of energy to power it.”

“We’ll build more Xenoshield systems,” Gabriel said. “And more Phenocyte reactors. We’ll reclaim the Earth one piece at a time until it’s all ours again.”

“Oh!” Wei said, raising a finger in the air. “If we had shields everywhere, the Specters would just bounce off them back into space!”

Ben considered it. “No, I don’t think that would . . .”

“And then we can reintroduce extinct species,” Tahlia said. “Oh, Ben, wouldn’t that be amazing? We could see a tiger in its natural habitat. And a rhino. And a platypus.”

“And a boobie bird,” Reza said with a chuckle, nudging Wei. The girl laughed.

“Look,” Ben said, pointing up to an empty spot in the night sky before anyone else could add more jokes. Thankfully, everyone followed his finger. “The Ark and the Artemis Bow should be right up there, somewhere, just east of the Ring.”

“I can’t see it,” Wei said. “Is that it? That little thing?”

“Everyone put your glasses on and tell them to enhance,” Gabriel told them. “Just like you learned in school.”

Ben reached up, finding his glasses on the top of his head. He pulled them down. “Chi, enhance,” they all said.

Ben’s camera zoomed in, providing him with a pic-in-pic of the enhancement. It took a moment of slow panning across the sky before he could see them, but then it was impossible not to see them. Magnified, they looked as if they might fall from space.

The Ark and the Artemis Bow. They were stationed in orbit at the same distance as the last two remaining space stations: 500 kilometers away. But those space stations had long ago been abandoned because of the Specter threat. The Ark and the Artemis Bow were different. There were no humans in either contraption, not yet at least, but there were thousands — maybe hundreds of thousands — of robots at work. Ben didn’t know the specifics, only that some were performing automated tasks and some were being controlled on the ground by specialists in Clan Persia. Sending up parts. Sending up bots. Pulling iron ore from orbiting asteroids. All of it coordinated. Fifty years of building and checking and double-checking.

While Clan Athens tested nutrient-rich foodstuffs and developed the gene banks.

While Clan Sparta developed the weapons system on the Ark.

“How many can fit in the Ark?” Reza asked.

“Seventy-five thousand people,” Ben answered. “Plus two DNA storage vessels to establish ecosystems. The colonization process has been happening for a long, long time. First, we had to find a planet. Then we had to build the Artemis Bow to send us there. Then, we had to begin the terraforming process. Hundreds of thousands of machines were shot through space, and each one had a specific purpose: to help establish an Earth-like ecosystem.”

“That sounds like a lot of work,” Wei said. She seemed interested, sitting on her knees beside Ben.

Ben indulged her, choosing his words carefully to ensure he didn’t overwhelm her with science. “Finding an Earth-like planet is hard. You need a stable solar system, and a stable planet with good gravity and lots of water. The atmosphere needs to be a within a certain parameter. So does the planet’s age. It needs to be tilted on its axis so the planet has seasons. It needs to have functioning tectonic plates to pull down water into the earth to lubricate the plates and weaken the asthenosphere. And that all had to be figured out before the terraforming bots even got there . . .”

“When did all these robots start terraforming?” Reza asked.

Ben was surprised. He thought everyone learned about the Ark. It seemed like every other week, an adult from Ben’s building was being summoned to work on the New Earth project. But of course the young Persian was too busy, wasn’t he? The nearest computer console could be used for a million different purposes, or one could simply waste all of one’s time playing games. “We’ve known about New Earth for a long time, studying it and getting five-year messages back from the bots we send out. But it wasn’t until the Specter invasion that we sped up the terraforming process. It gave us the nudge we needed, I suppose.”

“Will it be just citizens?” Reza asked nervously. “Or can the clans go too?”

“Everyone will be fairly represented,” Gabriel said. He leaned back on his elbows. “But I wouldn’t get too excited about going anywhere. You’re not going to shoot through space and arrive at an Earth filled with cities and your favorite video games. The pilgrims are going to be settling a new planet . . . using the Ark for scrap while they start over.”

Reza looked at Ben for confirmation. “Well,” Ben said, “I suppose that’s true. Although we should, in time, uh, be able to develop a safe transportation route between the two worlds . . .”

Gabriel laughed. “Is that what they tell you over in Clan Athens? And you believe it? It’s a lie. All this talk about space routes and new eras is a lie. As soon as we know the first Ark made it to New Earth safely, mass production begins. Our species is abandoning this planet.”

Ben’s brain whirred. He felt a chill run through his body. It couldn’t be possible, and yet of course it was all too logical. “We can’t all go.”

“No,” Gabriel said, his voice rising. “You’re right. There’s only so many resources here. Only so many iron mines. We’ll send as many of our best and brightest as possible . . . and leave the rest here at the mercy of the Specters.”

Tahlia’s hands found Ben’s. Her palms were cold and clammy. He squeezed them, willing the tips of her fingers to warm up. “I don’t want to be left behind,” she whispered. She sounded so afraid that Ben had to fight the urge to cry.

“You won’t be,” Gabriel told her gently. “Because if that’s what it comes to, you can have my seat. I’m not leaving this planet. Ever.” He lay back. “There are some things worth fighting for. This Earth is worth fighting for.”

Seamus cleared his throat. “The last time Parliament discussed such things, it was to develop a century plan. That is, to plan a hundred years into the future. You will all be dead before abandoning Earth is even considered.”

Gabriel scoffed.

“I was only trying to cheer you up.”

“Thanks,” Ben said, squeezing Tahlia’s hand. “I don’t know if it worked necessarily, but your heart’s in the right place, Seamus.”

“For what that’s worth,” Gabriel murmured.

Ben felt an intense urge to tell him to shut up. There was no need to be angry with the Historian. If anything, Seamus was demonstrating more of a personality than just about any other Historian Ben had ever had the opportunity to interact with. The Historian at Ben’s secondary school had taken her job so seriously that not only had she made a point of not being collegial with her students, she’d also gone the extra length to ensure her voice was as monotone as possible while she lectured. Ben had fallen asleep a few times, then woken and felt tremendously guilty for being so rude.

He felt sorry for Seamus. The Historian was only eighteen, like them, not some unthinking and unfeeling machine but simply a human being raised in rigid circumstances. For a cause. “History,” wrote the great Parliamentarian Gregory Chu, “cannot be written by the victor. It cannot be written by those who profit from it, nor those who benefit from it, nor those who fear it. It must be carefully preserved, protected, and shared.”

When he’d first heard the quote at the age of fifteen, it had seemed so beautiful. Ben had memorized it and, for a while, had looked up to the Historians. They were rigid and dull and odd but they had a noble purpose. By then, he’d read about so many ancient civilizations that had been burned, destroyed and wiped out entire societies that the idea of an impartial Historian seemed so right.

Then, when he turned seventeen, he graduated into research. He wanted to research gene therapy and better understand the history of the deadly PX54 mutation, which was linked to the more deadly cancer mutations. To do that, he needed to trace genealogies. He went back farther and farther and then . . .

The data stopped.

He couldn’t go back any farther without Historian clearance. He filed a request; it was denied.

There was more, too. Ancient specimens of animals and humans that were off-limits. Details of certain archeological digs scrubbed. Lots of questions.

Only Historians had the answer.

And they decided with whom to share the answers.

But Seamus? Seamus wasn’t like them. Seamus couldn’t be like the others. Or maybe Ben was just being gullible. Maybe Seamus knew tons of secrets that he would take to his grave. The thoughts and feelings swirled around inside Ben’s head as he stared up at the glowing Ring. He was too trusting, that was his problem. Too anxious. Too trusting. Too soft. Definitely not Skye’s type.

Did she steal glances at him when he wasn’t looking? Did her beautiful eyes land on him and stay frozen there for intermittent periods of time? Should he look her way right now and try to catch her? He shouldn’t be thinking all this. There was more important stuff for his brain to focus on. Did she maybe notice that his face was actually pretty symmetrical? Studies showed that people consistently found symmetrical faces more attractive than asymmetrical faces . . .

“Ben.”

He sat up, surprised to see Cleo standing over him.

“We need to go talk,” she said. “Come on.”

He got up, staying crouched as he followed beside her. “Uh, is it a good idea to stand up? If a nearby Specter sees us . . .”

“We have bigger things to worry about.” She stopped at the doorway, waiting for him to reach her. His hamstring muscles burned from walking in a crouch. He wondered if it was the nanobots, finding the little tears in the muscle and nudging his body’s satellite cells to fuse to the muscle fibers.

He glanced over his shoulder, to where Tahlia was laying splayed out on her sleeping bag, spread-eagle. One of her hands had reached out, resting on Reza’s face. He didn’t want to leave the kids. “Are you sure this can’t wait?”

“Yup. Come on.”

He followed her down the stairs. At the bottom, there seemed to be a slightly reflective piece of plastic wrapped across the doorway. Cleo walked through, then motioned with her head for Ben to follow. “It’s OK. I just amped up the personal shield a bit since we have so much battery juice. It only covers the doorway so it doesn’t have to work as hard as, say, when it’s wrapped around our bodies. Or a big Tumbler.”

Ben walked through, expecting some kind of jolt but feeling nothing. He was sufficiently impressed. Enough to temporarily forget about Skye’s beautiful eyes. The left side of his brain — the logical side — thanked Cleo for the reprieve.

“So your corpse —”

“Mrs. Walker,” Ben corrected her, following her to the glowing computer console.

“Right. Mrs. Walker. She has an interesting history, professor. Take a look.” Cleo brought up a file on a holoscreen, letting it float over the console. She used her fingers to widen the file, then flipped it to the second page. All of the blacked-out information was revealed. Ben read slowly, trying to make sense of it all. None of it was part of her medical record. “This doesn’t make sense,” he said. “This is a data set from a study.”

“It’s a Blackops file,” Cleo said. “Serious stuff. Now check this out.” She used her finger to flip to another page. Ben read through the contents and gasped.

Undisclosed facility.

Top-secret research.

Specters.

Chapter 15: Skye Mitchell

Clan Sparta

“What are they waiting for?” Cassidy asked in a quiet voice. “Why don’t they come for us?”

Skye sighed. Had the boy paid any attention in classes? “They’re too far away to sense us. If they get closer, we may have a problem. But for now, they’re content to wander.”

“Like ghosts.”

Ghosts aren’t real.

She watched them. There were more than a dozen Specters deep inside the forest, their glow illuminating the leaves of the trees. A dozen more wandered along the road leading back to the main highway that led to Neo Berlin. Skye watched a bright orange Sebecus walk across the road, spilling its glow over the old, blistered concrete. Its long, spiked tail hung in the air. The orange-red glow on the trees changed as the creature moved beneath the canopy of leaves. Searching the forest. Drifting.

Like a ghost.

Cassy adjusted his Ecosuit. “They’re not as scary up here.”

“Good,” she said. “Father would be happy to hear you say that.”

“But you were scared,” Cassy said. He moved his VR pistol to his right hand. “When you were attacked in the basement, right?”

“Keep your pistol in your left hand,” she said.

“My hand is getting sweaty.” He used his teeth to pull off his glove, then looked over his shoulder toward where the others were sleeping. He yawned. “Who’s going to keep watch while we sleep?”

“No one. I’m not sleeping.”

“You have to sleep. Everyone has to sleep.”

“I don’t trust anyone else to stay awake.”

“You sound like Father.”

“Thank you.”

“I was trying to be mean.”

The words stunned Skye. Now she realized why he’d taken his glove off, and she grabbed his hand before he could bring it to his mouth. “Don’t bite your knuckles!” she whispered harshly. “Why can’t you stop that?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s senseless,” she said. “It’s a sign of weakness.”

He didn’t answer. Skye sighed, feeling guilty. Stupid, stupid. Why do you get so mad all the time? It’s not his fault he’s weak. Father’s the one who coddles him. She reached down, grabbing her tray of half-eaten rations sitting on the rampart. “Here. Take my peas.”

“Really?”

“You’re the one who loves these things, right? Who else am I going to give them to?”

He holstered his pistol to his belt and grabbed the tray. Skye turned back to the forest, watching the glow of the Specters. If only they followed some kind of pattern. If only there was a way to gauge what they were thinking.

They’re not thinking anything. They’re just like jellyfish, doing whatever is in their nature. Unthinking. Unfeeling. That’s what makes them so dangerous.

She turned away, not interested in watching the things in the forest anymore. They were far away and no danger — yet. The camera on her glasses cut through the darkness, trying its best to maintain the natural colors of the setting for optimal judgment and projecting the night vision onto the smartglasses’ lenses. The night vision setting didn’t work particularly well. The sleeping bags were a dark red. The solar panels were black. But everything was a shade of green.

There were more Specters to the north. Much farther away, their glow barely noticeable as they moved across the mountain. None of the flying giant insect species. The Manteidos.

The flying species have a pattern. Explain that, Clan Athens. Try and figure out why the Manteidos migrate.

Maybe Clan Athens did know why the Manteidos seemed to follow the warm weather, despite only coming out at night like their Sebecus brethren. Maybe Clan Athens knew why there were two distinct species of Specter. Maybe Clan Athens just wasn’t sharing, despite the alliance. Maybe Clan Athens had a solution for the Manteidos’ constant attacks on the aerial drones and simply refused to share it to make Clan Sparta look foolish.

Yikes. I really am turning into Father.

“You know how tall those mountains are?” Cassy asked, spooning a nutrient-rich mixture of peas and goo into his mouth.

“How tall?” Skye asked.

“Four thousand meters.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve been taking geography class as my elective this year. I told you that a million times.”

“Oh. Well, what else do you know?”

“Tahlia says there’s deer in those mountains. And wolves and snakes and hamsters. She says the farther away animals are to the cities, the more Specters leave them alone.” He ate another spoonful. “It’s like they’re looking for something, don’t you think?”

“Yes. They’re looking for delicious creatures to eat.”

Cassy shook his head. “Mmm-mmm. It’s more like . . . they seem lost.”

Skye’s eyes panned the peaks of the mountain range. From this distance, the Specters looked like nothing more than glowing orbs. She’d once read a story about a ghost that carried a lantern up a mountain every year, and anyone who followed him would disappear forever. Father had told that story when she was young, before her Spartan training had begun. Back then, he’d been stern and serious and gruff but he sometimes found an opportunity to smile when they were in the privacy of their home.

After he’d told the story to her, after he and Mother had gone to sleep, Skye had reached into the safe-keeping box under her bed and pulled out her little Maggie doll. It was a gift from a citizen boy in primary school who had thought she needed one. She would tell Father’s stories to Maggie, brush her curly red hair, straighten her white overalls, then put Maggie under the covers before going to sleep.

She did this for three years. Every night, she told Maggie a story, or told Maggie about what she did that day, or told Maggie about the great things her family had accomplished.

And then, on the first day of her Spartan training, she woke up and Maggie was gone.

“Skye?” Cass said. “They’re back.”

She turned to the doorway. Ben and Cleo were walking toward her. A strange feeling of jealousy crept over her. Stop it. What do you care if a Persian and Athenian find a little time for extracurricular activities? The feeling refused to go away. The feeling seemed to be telling her it had every right to be inside her body, and would remain there, thank you very much.

“We need to wake everyone up,” Ben said. “We have . . . um, an emergency.”

“What do you mean?” Skye asked sharply.

“He means crap is about to hit the fan,” Cleo said.

“I don’t understand your weird language,” Skye snapped. “What do you mean?”

“Mrs. Walker,” Ben said.

“The corpse,” Cleo added.

Ben nodded. “She . . . had secrets.”

Skye stared at them a moment, waiting for more. But apparently that was all they were willing to say. “Fine. Wake everyone up, then. Cassy, let’s go.”

They walked to the others. Ben reached down, gently waking them one by one. Wei sat up, looked around, and immediately started whimpering; Gabriel grabbed her and held her close. He shivered, looking up at the Ring. Skye watched his expression — not fear, but rather a sort of angry wariness. She respected that, at least. The Parliamentarian was pampered, but his eyes saw the Ring right.

“What the heck time is it?” the chubby Persian boy asked, rubbing his chubby cheeks. “It’s freezing.”

Cleo sat crossed-legged beside her brother. “It’s late. Or early. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. We need to have a chit-chat.”

She tapped a few buttons on her VRacelet and a map appeared on the screen. She held out her wrist, letting everyone get a look. Their sleepy faces were bathed in the white glow of the map; the reflection of a little red blinking destination bounced on Wei’s pale forehead. Skye leaned in to get a look, then moved aside so Cassy could see, too.

Check your six.

Her heart skipped a beat, as if expecting another Specter to have quietly appeared somewhere on the rooftop. But it was empty. Only a few spots of fiery orange luminescence in the expansive forest to the east. And a few stars poking out near the horizon, far enough away from the Ring for darkness to take root.

“What are we looking at?” Gabriel asked.

“A research facility,” Ben explained. “It’s about twenty kilometers northwest of here. It doesn’t appear on any of the Tumbler’s maps. Judging from the rest of the information we found in Mrs. Walker’s file, no one is supposed to know it exists.”

“So how do we know where, exactly, it is?” Skye asked.

“Because there’s a distress signal coming from the location,” Cleo answered. “And not a public distress call, either. Otherwise, the Tumbler’s computer would have automatically picked it up. This is like a super-duper top-secret distress call that I only found because I punched Mrs. Walker’s clearance into the computer and bypassed a Cobra firewall. It was pretty tense.”

“What kind of distress call is it?” Gabriel asked.

Ben and Cleo looked warily at each other. “Specter attack,” Ben finally answered.

Adrenaline coursed through Skye’s body. She couldn’t fight the urge to look around again. She had the terrible feeling that something was watching them right now. The tactical voice in her head that had been reassuring her of the roof’s strategic advantages was conspicuously quiet now. And without that voice, any illusions of safety she’d built up in her head seemed to shatter. They weren’t safe here. They weren’t safe anywhere.

They should have risked the drive home.

What are you thinking, girl? Most Spartans dream of this opportunity. Glory! That’s what it’s all about!

She looked down at Cassy. Her brother was on his knees, peering over the rampart at the mountains to the north. His bare hand found his mouth and he began biting his knuckles one by one.

“So what do we do?” Gabriel asked. “We contact someone, right?”

Cleo shook her head and pointed to the Ring above. “Still no satellite feed yet. The electrical disruption must have really done a number on them.”

“So we go,” Gabriel said. “When?”

“Now,” Cleo answered without hesitation. “Now, now, now. We gotta go help them.”

“Wait,” Skye said. “That’s not protocol. At daylight, as soon as the satellites are back up, we contact Parliament. For all we know, they’ve already received the distress call.”

“If that’s true, then there’s already a Spartan assault team on-site and they can escort us home,” Cleo said. “Come on! The corpse’s data card says there are eighty-six people at this place. We can’t just leave them!”

“We can,” Skye said. “And we will.”

“That’s not your call to make,” Gabriel said. “As crazy as it sounds . . . I agree with Cleo. If there are people in danger, we can’t just leave them to die.”

“We’ve got a fully charged Tumbler, which is pretty much a tank,” Cleo said. “And it’s a short distance. And all of our personal shields are mostly charged, too. I can even bring one of the spare ION batteries with us so we have plenty of juice.”

“What about our secondary objective?” Skye asked. She didn’t like this. They were talking about disobeying a direct order from the premier. They were talking about going out of their way to put the entire Coterie — including the premier’s son and daughter — in danger. The Specter in the basement had been unexpected. This was different.

You knew there was a Specter in the basement, girl. Don’t lie to yourself. You just wanted the glory. So you could impress Father.

“We were told to return to the city if there was any danger,” she said quietly.

“But what if we can help?” Ben asked. Skye turned to him, surprised. He shrank a bit. “I mean . . . uh, I know it’s strange to think about, but Mrs. Walker had a family. Someone is going to have to tell her parents and her family that she died out here.”

“And someone is going to have to tell your family that you died out here,” Skye said. “Is that what you want, Athenian?”

“I want to help those people if they’re in trouble,” Ben answered. The forcefulness of his tone caught Skye by surprise again. So you do have a little fight in you, huh? If he wasn’t arguing with her, she might actually find that attractive. Oh, who was she kidding? The fact that he was arguing with her made it even more attractive.

“We don’t know anything about this research facility,” Skye said. “Or the condition of the roads.”

“We know there are people in danger.” Gabriel shook his head. “This is why Coteries exist. This is what we’re expected to do after our Proving is complete. If someone is in danger, then we help. That’s the purpose of the Coterie. Unity. I vote we perform a standard rescue mission.”

“I second,” Cleo said. Skye glared at her, and for a moment she didn’t think Cleo would understand the look at all. Finally, it seemed to register. Cleo shrugged. “I’m a weirdo, but I’m not a cold-hearted weirdo. There could be people who need help.”

“I vote in favor,” Ben added. “Mrs. Walker must have run here for a reason. She ran nearly twenty kilometers. She didn’t give up. She was . . . she was so close.”

Every human life is precious. Her father’s words echoed in Skye’s head. He’d said those words once during a speech to Parliament. He’d choked up; Skye remembered it vividly because it had been the closest he’d ever come to crying in her presence.

She knew they were right. But to risk failure . . .

Skye turned to the Historian. He shook his head. “I would strongly recommend against this.”

Skye, astounded, crossed her arms. “I can’t believe the Historian is the only one on my side. I . . . I refuse to drive.”

“You have to drive,” Gabriel said. “This is a binding vote.”

“I don’t care,” Skye told him. She had an urge to take back what she’d said, but stubborn pride pushed her forward now. “I’m not driving. This is a horrible idea.”

“Fine. I’ll drive,” Cleo told them. “Let’s go.”

Skye watched in shock as they began packing their things. “You can’t drive!” she told Cleo in an agitated whisper. “It’s a Tumbler! You don’t have clearance! You don’t have training!”

“How hard could it be?” she asked. “We’re traveling a few kilometers. If I can find the gas pedal, I’ll be fine.”

“You . . . that . . .” She looked down at Cassy. He shook his head at her, helping the fat boy fold the inflatable pillows. Fine. So she would appeal to reason, then. It was the only way out of this mess. She walked over to Ben, who was rolling up his thermal sleeping bag. “You have to change your mind. This is a horrible idea. We’re risking our lives over something that isn’t any of our business.”

Ben sighed, squeezing the rolled-up sleeping bag against his chest. “I know. But I can’t stop thinking about Mrs. Walker. She had a family, Skye. And she was so close to surviving. Maybe right now, there are others who are that close. And maybe we can save them.”

“We’re not following protocol. We risk forfeiting our Proving.”

“If it comes to that, I’ll assume the risk,” Ben said. “I know how much this Proving means to Spartans.”

Skye was momentarily speechless. “Why would you do that for me and Cassy?”

“Um.” He smiled and looked down at his sleeping bag, crushing it against his chest. “Well . . . the Proving doesn’t matter as much to us Athenians. That’s all.”

She watched him walk to the staircase. The Historian stepped beside her. He cleared his throat. “This is a very, very bad idea.”

“Agreed.”

Cassy grabbed her hand, pulling on it. “We can’t stay here alone, Skye. Please! Skye, I’m scared!”

She cursed, grabbing their sleeping bags. “Let’s go.”

To glory . . . or death.

Or both.

Chapter 16: Cleopatra Kashani

Clan Persia

“Everyone strap in!” Skye hissed, helping each of the Young Adults into the Tumbler by literally grabbing their shoulder plates and giving them a hard push. “Kids in the rear, next to the medical station! If we’re going to do this, then we’re doing it by the book!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cleo muttered. She opened her utility pack, fingering a piece of peppermint gum. She popped it into her mouth, then reached into her other utility pack — the special pack — and pulled out her (totally-top-secret) data stick. She sat in the driver’s seat and inserted the data stick into the console’s utility port. “Reza, you’d better have that map up in five seconds!” she yelled.

The Tumbler’s control console came to life. A hundred different-colored buttons appeared, including a dozen readings — battery, temperature, proton charge — that Cleo only vaguely understood. Plenty of stuff to get confused about. Plenty of readings and electronic dials and nodes that Clan Sparta’s recruits no doubt trained on for months. But in the lower left-hand corner of the touchscreen was the little icon for her datastick, which was all she needed.

“What in Hades do you think you’re doing?” Skye asked, stepping up beside her.

“You said you didn’t want to drive,” Cleo said simply, tapping the icon for her datastick. A message appeared on the console screen, overlapping the myriad display of buttons:

LOADING PROGRAM . . .

The Tumbler door slid shut. Cleo flinched. She hated to admit it, but she was more than a little afraid of the Spartan chick. “You can’t possibly drive this,” Skye said.

Cleo shrugged. “Hey, I just thought you might want to use the big gun mounted on the roof.”

The program finished loading. The control console’s hundreds of buttons disappeared, replaced by a very simple schematic: a hand imprint to control the wheels, a sliding button to control thrust, a sliding button to control the air brakes. Cleo placed her left palm on the hand imprint. She put her right hand between the other controls, situating her fingers so they each touched a single control: speed, brakes, thrust, power, and the ever-important horn.

With her pinky, she tapped the power button. Beneath their feet, the engine hummed to life.

“What is that?” Skye demanded.

“It’s a driving console,” Cleo said simply. “I know how to drive a car, so I wrote a program that lets me simplify the driving schematics for other vehicles. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do for a short ride through the countryside.”

“Sometimes, she drives autotaxis,” Reza said.

“Quiet, you!” Cleo looked over her shoulder. The Historian was sitting awkwardly between Wei and Tahlia, near the back. She pointed to him. “You didn’t hear that.”

Skye opened her mouth as if ready to shout, then closed it. She turned to her brother, who’d very silently slipped into the co-pilot’s chair. “Can you use the forward guns and keep an eye on the sensors she’s ignoring?”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Are you sure, Cassy?”

“Yes!” he said louder.

Cleo turned to Skye, smiling. “I think he’ll be good.”

“Keep us steady at fifteen kilometers per hour,” Skye said. “The road is rough, so let Cassy find the best route. Listen to him.” She sat at Cleo’s command station, her fingers hovering over the holo-bulb’s control panel. “How do I access the VR gun?”

“Press the green button,” Cleo said. “Always the green button. Green for go, red for stop. Don’t mess with what works.”

“Now what?”

“The holoscreen is interactive,” Cleo said. “Pull up the command box, like you’re grabbing something and lifting it up.”

Skye grabbed the air, lifting an imaginary object up. A blue box popped up over the holobulb. It was loaded with simple-looking icons. “Now what?” she asked.

“Touch the icon that looks like a gun,” Cleo said. “Duh.”

Skye did. The screen changed, showing a green-shaded night-vision version of the world outside. The cameras on the exterior of the Tumbler gave her a full 360-degree view, with a red targeting reticule in the center. Skye’s hands found the manual controls underneath the holoscreen projector: two joysticks to move the targeting reticule on the screen, which moved the VR cannon mounted on the Tumbler roof. One joystick to manipulate the x- and y-axes, and the other joystick to adjust the distance of the proton shot.

“Now all you have to do is —”

“I know how to use a proton cannon,” Skye snapped. “Just get us out of here.”

Cleo very gently slid one finger across the blue acceleration bar on the console. The Tumbler jolted to life. The tires squealed.

“Easy!” Skye shouted.

“Like this,” her brother said, adjusting the speed on his console screen. “It’s touchy. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Thanks,” Cleo murmured. Through the reinforced windshield, she could see the bumpy road leading away from the emergency supply depot. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the trees and tall grass along the side of the road. The rest was tinged green, visible with the help of the Tumbler’s night-vision program. Cleo’s contacts identified the foliage running along the road, giving her an annoying amount of information about their stupid leaves. “Crudmissile, minimize taxonomy.” She pressed her middle finger down on the touchpad, keeping the Tumbler straight.

She was doing it. She was driving a freaking Tumbler. Her driving program worked.

“OK, I know we’re in incredible danger,” she said over her shoulder, “but this is without a doubt the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Just get us there safely,” Gabriel said from the rear, “and we’ll give you a good pat on the back.”

“Ben!” Cleo shouted, doing her best impression of a grizzled Spartan soldier. “I’m gonna need you to move up to the seat next to Reza’s console. Now!”

“Sure thing,” he said, unstrapping and moving next to Reza. “What now?”

“Just hang out,” Cleo said. “I may need you to get me a drink of water if things get tense.”

Cassidy chuckled. He lowered the speed again. A dozen red dots appeared on the road ahead. “Those are big potholes,” he said. “Try to move around them.”

“Cool,” Cleo said. Her pointer finger and middle finger pressed down on the touchpad, guiding the Tumbler to the right side of the road. They hit a small bump; the vehicle bounced on its shock absorbers. Her hand slipped, causing the vehicle to lurch right. “Sorry, sorry!”

“You shouldn’t have used sensi-touch controls!” Reza said. “You should have used a z-axis motion for the driving!”

“Quiet, you!”

“Reepa or Reema or whatever your name is,” Skye called out. “We need directions.”

“It’s Reza,” Cleo’s brother whined. Cleo smiled. Reepa . . . what a good way to get under the boy’s skin — and the best part was Skye could call up his name on her smartglasses whenever she wanted to! Cleo would remember that next time he tried to fart on her.

“Just tell me what you see,” Skye said.

“We need to turn up ahead,” he answered. “Uh . . . I dunno where.”

“How about you be a little more specific, bro-bro?” Cleo asked.

“I can’t! There’s no road on this map. It’s just telling us to turn into the forest!”

A sick feeling hardened in the pit of Cleo’s stomach. Through the windshield, the Tumbler’s bright headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating heavy trees whose limbs reached high across the road.

SALIX BABYLONICA (WEEPING WILLOW)

LIFESPAN: 40-75 YEARS

Long, slender leaves hung downward like tentacles, billowing hypnotically, casting skeletal shadows farther along the road, where the darkness seemed to loom like a black hole. Cleo swallowed her gum. The excitement had just worn off, as if a fuse in her brain had been instantly tripped.

“Right. OK. So . . . I’ve had my fun. How about we switch places?” she called over her shoulder. “Skye? What do ya say?”

“We’re in trouble,” Skye murmured.

“What is it?” Ben asked.

“Sebecus Specters . . . two of them. They’re hunting us.”

Cleo’s hand instinctively went for the accelerator, but Cassidy reached out and grabbed her fingers. “We can’t speed up. The road is too choppy.”

“What do we do?” Ben asked. “How can we help?”

“Keep an eye on Reepa’s map,” Skye said. “Tell Cleo when to turn. I’ll handle our stalkers.”

“I’ll link our consoles,” Cassidy said calmly. A blue line appeared on the windshield, running up the road and into the darkness far ahead. Cassidy’s finger slid on the console, adjusting the path to avoid the red circles highlighting the worst sections of road. He was using Reza’s out-of-date topographical map to identify the potholes! The kid was damn good, Cleo thought. Downright calm. Sure, he was leaving a streak of greasy sweat on the console, but Cleo could hardly judge him for that.

She was sweating buckets.

Another bump. Something underneath the Tumbler rattled in a not-so-great sounding sort of way. Cleo’s tense fingers pressed down on her super-special navigation buttons, guiding the Tumbler on the path laid out by Cassidy. She pressed down with her pinky to lead the Tumbler to the left side of the road, avoiding a chunk of reinforced concrete whose rusted track-bars were sticking up like gangly fingers.

Suddenly, the entire Tumbler jolted. Cleo’s butt slipped in the seat; her fingers slipped on the controls, sending the vehicle lurching to the right. She adjusted, pressing down on the console with her pinky, feeling her heart thump against her ribcage. Yeah, the pressure-sensitive control scheme was probably better suited for hijacking an autotaxi, but there was no way in hell she would admit that to Reza.

Ahead, more weeping willows crowded the road, leaning down low and reaching for the Tumbler with their gangly branches. She felt an acidic burning in the back of her throat as her dinner of mock-steak tried making its way back up.

“What was that?” Gabriel exclaimed.

“One less Specter on our asses,” Skye said calmly.

“Turn right!” Reza and Ben shouted.

“What?” Cleo searched the area around the road for some kind of side road, or at least some kind of clearing. The area along the right side of the road was lined with dark trees.

“Turn right now!” they both shouted again. She pressed her pointer finger and thumb hard on the console. The Tumbler’s computer sensed the increased pressure and jerked the wheels right. The steel nose of the vehicle tore through foliage, crushing saplings underneath its massive frame. Cleo could feel branches grating against the bottom of the vehicle. The headlights cut through only a few inches of foliage, but beyond it she could see another much larger obstacle.

“Veer left, butthead!” Reza told her.

Cleo turned the Tumbler left, avoiding the tall tree that stood behind a heavy bush with lazy-looking banana-shaped leaves. The right wheels rose up on an exposed root, then the weight of the vehicle snapped it in two and the Tumbler bounced on its shocks. She could see farther ahead now: it was a road. An old, old road with broken concrete caused by decade-old saplings with white bark infesting old cracks and fissures. They seemed to be everywhere, in every direction. There wasn’t any clear way through.

“This way,” Cassidy said, illuminating a route on the windshield. “It’s not perfect, but the Tumbler can handle it.”

“Hold on!” Cleo shouted, following the blue line, weaving the Tumbler between a pair of young trees. She edged one, then ran full-on into another, snapping it in half. “Sorry, little guys,” she whispered.

The Tumbler’s engine dulled and the vehicle jolted again before revving up and returning to its set speed.

“Another Specter down,” Skye announced.

“Is that it?” Gabriel asked. “Are we safe?”

“Oh no,” Ben said. His voice was distant in Cleo’s ears, drowned out by the knocking of tree branches against the exterior of the Tumbler. It sounded as if the forest itself was attacking them in every direction, ferociously hammering on the Tumbler’s reinforced armor.

The Tumbler lurched again. The console flickered and the engine seemed to stop for a moment.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Cleo said through gritted teeth, “but that big gun isn’t working the way it should.”

“It’s working exactly the way it should,” Skye said. “Cassy, bring up the speed to twenty kilometers.”

“Wait!” Cleo said, unable to force her eyes to look away from the windshield. “I’m driving through a forest and every pore on my body is sweating and I’m totally freaked out!”

“Cassy speed up this Tumbler right now or we’re going to die!” Skye shouted.

The Tumbler sped up. Its wheels ripped through bushes and weeds. Branches bounced off the exterior to Cleo’s left, causing her to flinch. By Hades, she could have kicked herself for agreeing to this. Since when was she the heroic type, anyway? It was that corpse. That stupid, horrible corpse — Mrs. Walker, she corrected herself. Mrs. Walker had a kid. Now that kid didn’t have a mom. Maybe there were others in the super-secret facility with kids, too. And Cleo knew what it was like to lose your parents. She didn’t want anyone else to feel that way.

“Here they come . . .” Ben said. Something about the (dark) tone of his voice sent a chill down Cleo’s spine.

“What’s going on?!” Cleo asked, turning the Tumbler left and crashing it through a cluster of bushes. A flock of black birds took flight, causing her already taxed heart to skip a beat. She couldn’t feel her fingers anymore. Her muscles felt so tense that her brain was actually telling her it would be a good idea to just pull her hands away from the console, unbuckle and move to the back of the Tumbler and somehow, things would be all right.

The only thing keeping her sane was the chip implant. She could almost feel it sending little neural signals through her brain, helping her calculate each turn, the velocity of the vehicle, the estimated impact of any sapling.

The Tumbler shook again. The lights flickered. This time, it felt different. As if something had knocked against the side of the vehicle. The shield! A Specter had brushed against the Tumbler’s shield! A warning appeared on the windshield:

SHIELD POWER 65%

“How many, Ben?” Skye asked.

“Lots,” he said. His voice sounded shaky. Cleo kept her eyes on the path Cassy laid out, slipping between two tall pines with thick trunks with about a finger of room to spare. The road was less damaged here, and the bright headlights gave her a good half-second of reaction time. Just enough time for someone with an EX980 chip implant. She could feel it working, helping to process the visual input coming in from her eyes. It sped up her reaction (just a little bit), helping her brain identify the biggest florae-themed threats (just a little bit). She was getting used to this!

“Give me a number, Ben!” Skye shouted

“Six . . . no, wait! Seven!”

Cleo coughed on her own spit, eyes watering, doing her best to steer the Tumbler left. Her left contact fell out of place and she cursed, trying to keep the Tumbler from slipping off the side of the road. “Not now, baby,” she whispered. The forest floor was clearing out. The headlights illuminated heavier chunks of road and — farther ahead — the base of a mountain, pitch black.

Then she saw it. A Specter. A Manteidos Specter. An insect taller than a human being emerging from the line of pine trees along the left of the road. Its head was large, cresting at the top and shaped like an upside-down triangle. All four of its wings were extended, spanning the width of the old road. It had a dark orange glow, and as it turned to face the Tumbler it cocked its head as if considering its prey.

“Crap,” Cleo said.

“Cass, the forward guns,” Skye said. “The guns, Cass!”

Two bright blue proton bullets fired from underneath the hood of the Tumbler. One grazed the Specter’s shoulder. It leapt . . .

. . . and landed right on the hood of the Tumbler. Its four legs dug into the shield, causing white ripples to flow away from each leg. The Specter’s right claw, a veritable buzz saw of a limb, reached up and slammed down into the invisible shield. It was as if the shield was a delicate soap bubble, and the Manteidos had managed to slip inside without popping it. The claw had pierced the shield, its sharp glowing tip just millimeters from touching the windshield.

So close that Cleo could see through the creature’s skin. She could see its little veins underneath the ghostly carapace. And it. Was. Terrifying.

“Skye help in the name of Hades do something; I’m freaking out!” Cleo shouted over the ear-piercing screaming of the children in the back. The Tumbler’s right wheels bumped over a chunk of concrete, causing the vehicle to shudder. The Manteidos shifted, two of its legs losing their grip on the shield.

SHIELD POWER 24%

“Cassy, the brakes!” Skye shouted.

Her brother reached out, sliding his shaking finger across the blue velocity bar until the blue was entirely gone. The Tumbler stopped on a dime, and Cleo felt her chest jolt uncomfortably against the chair’s nylon straps. The Specter seemed to float away from the windshield, landing softly on the ground where it had to dig one ghost-like claw into the blistered concrete to stop its momentum.

A red targeting reticule appeared on the windshield, right in the center of the Specter’s thorax.

“Now, Cassy!” Skye said.

More proton bullets fired from underneath the hood. They hit the Specter, cutting through it and causing its ghost-like body to burst apart in a flurry of yellow sparks.

“Punch it!” Skye ordered.

Cassidy’s hand reached out, sliding the blue acceleration bar forward. The Tumbler immediately reacted, its engine under their feet emitting a low groan. They picked up speed, tearing through the remaining sparks; each one bounced off the shield before dissipating.

“I’m plotting the last few shots into the autofire system,” Skye said, unbuckling.

“Those autofire systems are spotty,” Cleo said over her shoulder.

“My sis is right,” Reza piped up. “They’re pretty new tech. Lots of bugs.”

“It’ll have to do,” Skye said.

Cleo, breathing fast, glanced over her shoulder and did a double-take when she realized the Spartan wasn’t at her console anymore. “Wait, what?! Where are you going?!”

“We’re making a hot evacuation,” Skye answered calmly. “Everyone takes a gun, no one stays behind.”

“But I’m scared!” Wei wailed from the rear of the Tumbler.

They hit another bump and the Tumbler bounced on its shocks. The headlights dimmed and the vehicle shook as the proton gun fired twice more.

“The battery,” Cassidy said. “We’re at twenty percent, Cleo.”

“Cool,” Cleo murmured, fighting the muscles in her left arm. They were so tense now that it hurt, and keeping the vehicle straight at such a fast speed on such a damaged road was impossible. The Tumbler swerved left and right. Its wheels rolled over a fallen tree, lifting the front of the vehicle into the air, so high that for a moment, all Cleo could see through the windshield was the Ring cutting through the night sky. As the Tumbler came back down, it bounced on its shock absorbers, rattling her teeth. Behind her, someone fell out of their seat and began crying. Reza? Was it Reza?

“There! The facility!” Cassidy said, pointing ahead. It was built into the mountain, unassuming, a concrete façade fabricated into the rock with two thick pipes that jutted out of the steep rock face, reaching down into a single cylindrical steel tank. Cleo recognized the system: emergency cooling gas tanks that pumped into a small Phenocyte reactor.

The road evened out, causing the murmuring sound of the tires to soften the way primary school kids did when a teacher entered the room. The headlights illuminated the area in front of the facility. A targeting reticule appeared on the windshield, providing a detailed description of the carnage ahead. Cleo didn’t need any details to know just how badly they’d miscalculated.

“Oh no.”

“Make sure everyone has a pistol, Gabriel,” Skye called out from the back of the Tumbler. “Everyone gets one. When we stop, we move into the facility. Everyone repeat after me: Chi, shields on.”

“Chi, shields on,” the kids (and Ben) repeated.

“Skye!” Cleo shouted. “Skye, there’s . . . crap, I don’t even know!”

A big, fat capital-D Disaster. That was the only way to describe it. The steel loading bay built into the façade was half-lifted. Adjacent to the loading dock were a dozen panes of glass, each one divided by white steel frames built into the solid rock. And a door, half-open, with something human-shaped lying in the doorway.

And a Tumbler. A Spartan Tumbler, parked next to the loading bay, with a dozen bodies lying near it. Unmoving. Lying in a distinctly I’m-not-sleeping sort of way.

“Skye,” Cleo squeaked.

“I see it,” Skye said. The headlights dimmed again and this time the Tumbler shook violently, its engine coughing.

“We’re low on battery power,” Cassidy said. “Thirteen percent now.”

“Everyone hold on!” Skye shouted over her shoulder. She leaned in between Cleo and Cassidy, her gloved hands squeezing the backs of their seats. “Cassy, speed up and don’t hit the brakes until we’re flush with the other Tumbler. Cleo, get ready to make a sharp left. Let’s create a barrier between the Specters and the entrance to the loading bay. Maybe that other Tumbler’s shield system is still on.” She lifted her leg, pressing her boot on the control console. The Tumbler was on a crash course to the steel shutters of the loading bay; Cleo’s right hand found the armrest of her chair, squeezing the spongy foam. She gulped a deep breath and held it. Her heart thudded against her chest.

“Now!” Skye shouted. Cassy’s finger slid across the blue accelerator. Cleo pressed her left pinky finger down on the pressure-sensitive console. The disc braking system clicked, fighting the wheels as they turned left. Cleo felt her body thrust forward, stopped by the nylon straps. The muscles in the back of her neck burned as her head lowered, her jaw bouncing off her chest, her soft skin rubbing against the spidersilk Ecosuit.

They were stopped.

“Now!” Skye shouted, punching the manual door switch over her brother’s head. “Go go go go go! Turn left and duck inside the loading bay!”

Cleo’s shaky hands fumbled with her seatbelt. “Come on,” she whined. “Come on come on come on!”

The metal lock disconnected. She jumped out of the seat and turned, suddenly aware of a terrible reality: she was the last person in the Tumbler, and there was no telling what was directly outside. “Crudmissile, call map.” The map appeared in the lower right-hand corner of her right contact lens so it appeared floating near the floor of the dark Tumbler.

Jump outside. Sharp turn left.

She jumped out, sure that a Specter was going to tackle her out of nowhere. When it didn’t happen, she dug her heels into the concrete ground, turning left. Her left lens was still out of alignment but her right lens adjusted to the darkness, turning everything a neon green by adjusting the spectral range and intensity range, pinging her VRacelet to utilize its (obsolete) CPU. “Thank you,” she huffed between breaths, running as fast as her out-of-shape legs would allow. She felt a pop in her left knee, an old Disc Toss injury that her idiotic parents had told her she would heal from. She imagined little gears in her knee breaking under the stress but willed them to keep turning for just a few more steps.

So close. Her lenses alerted her to the facility’s Wi-Fi signal, weak but functioning. She used the chip in her brain to call up her Piggypacking program to make a connection. “Crudmissile, close loading bay doors,” she commanded.

The steel shutter door began to lower. Cleo ducked under it, screaming in victory as she fell to the ground, letting the Ecosuit absorb the brunt of the fall. She rolled a few times, swallowed bit her tongue, then came to a stop at someone’s boots.

The steel shutter closed.

They were (temporarily) safe.

Chapter 17: Gabriel Martinez

Parliament

“We need lights, Persian,” Skye whispered in the darkness.

Gabriel reached out, grabbing the shoulder plate of someone smaller. He wasn’t sure if it was Wei or not, but whoever it was let him keep it there. He felt dizzy in the darkness. His smartglasses slowly adjusted, trying to enhance what little light was coming from the tiny emergency bulbs somewhere above. Everything turned a dark green, but he could at least make out dark shapes. Large steel crates sat stacked in two neat rows off to his right. To his left, the chubby silhouette of Reza appeared out of a greenish shadow, his pistol aimed toward the ground. The gun shook in his hands.

Gabriel knelt, keeping his hand on the Persian boy’s back. “It’ll be OK,” he whispered. He didn’t believe himself, though. A thousand thoughts were running through his head, and they were all had the same theme: foolishness. He shouldn’t have cast his vote to come here. This was a mission for a real Coterie, not a rag-tag group of kids. So why had he done it?

To uphold the values of the Coterie. That was the only answer his brain offered.

Skye moved through the darkness with purpose, barking orders. She tapped Ben on the shoulder. He was near the other side of the loading bay, one arm wrapped around his sister. Gabriel recognized Tahlia’s fluffy hair.

“Back,” Skye ordered. “Ten steps away from the loading bay doors. Go. Cleo, we need lights!”

“I’m trying to reconnect with facility Wi-Fi,” Cleo said. “My networking app ith a little thpotty.”

“What?”

“Thpotty. I bit my tongue.”

By Hades, even when she wasn’t intentionally acting like a clown . . .

The dim light from her VRacelet temporarily blinded Gabriel until his glasses adjusted again. With the assist from the VRacelet, the green night vision became more pronounced and he could see Wei now. She was near the steel crates on the other side of the loading bay, standing behind the Spartan boy. The Spartan boy had taken Wei’s pistol and was holding one in each hand, aiming them at the door. Wei stayed behind him, one hand hooked around his belt.

Gabriel breathed a sigh of relief. She was probably safer near him, all things considered.

“There are three left,” Skye said, hefting her VR rifle and aiming it at the shutters. “They’ll make their way around the Tumblers, avoiding the shields. Then they’ll phase through the steel shutters. It won’t be easy — the shutters are thick. Don’t fire right away or they’ll pull back and try to pin us here and there’s no telling what might already be in here. I’d rather not have to worry about watching our backs.”

“Got it,” Gabriel said. He swallowed his fear. His voice hadn’t sounded too afraid, had it? He wanted to at least pretend he was strong, for the Persian boy’s sake. “Lift up your gun just a bit,” he whispered, putting a hand under the boy’s and lifting his pistol up a bit so it was aimed at the steel shutters. “We’ll get through this.”

“Historian!” Skye shouted, walking toward them. Gabriel turned and realized for the first time that Seamus was crouching behind him, his gun still attached to his belt. With the night vision activated he was nothing more than a green shadow . . . but it was still obvious he was afraid.

They were all afraid. But Seamus was cowering.

Skye grabbed Seamus by the shoulder. “You’re not shooting over the shoulder of Parliament’s prodigal son.” She set him beside Reza. “Pull your gun now before —”

Wei’s scream echoed in the loading bay.

A pair of luminescent fiery orange jaws slipped through the steel shutters. A crocodile-like snout, mouth hanging open, its long tongue flicking out to taste something in the air. The entire loading bay seemed to ignite. Wei’s and Cassidy’s shadows drew across the solid floor as if fleeing in terror.

Wei was still screaming.

“Hold your fire!” Skye shouted with what Gabriel thought to be an incredible composure. His own legs were quivering, the muscles tense and sore from the sprint from the Tumbler to the facility. He wanted to stand but he felt like he had to keep one arm around Reza for both their sakes. He pointed his pistol.

Wei’s scream died out as she ran out of breath. Her scream was replaced by something much worse: the Specter’s low moan. It rattled a pair of tools sitting atop one of the shipping containers. Gabriel could feel it under his skin.

Another pair of glowing bright red crocodile jaws emerged. Then a pair of insect-like mandibles, followed by a mitre-shaped head with bulbous eyes. Three Specters, phasing slowly through the steel shutters. Two crocodile-like Sebecus, one insectoid Manteidos.

They’d made a horrible mistake coming here.

“Wait,” Skye said calmly.

“We have to shoot them,” Gabriel whispered.

“Wait,” Skye said.

The two newcomers glowed a bright red, spilling a bloody glow over Gabriel and Reza and Seamus. Red. By Hades, their color wasn’t diminishing at all as they phased through the steel. The gory color spread across the entire loading bay, revealing its expansiveness. Gabriel turned right, taking in Skye’s hardened face and hoping a little of her overflowing courage might spill onto him.

The moans of all three Specters seemed to resonate from every direction, echoing behind them. The hairs on the back of Gabriel’s neck vibrated stood on end. These things weren’t ghosts . . . they were something much more, and it only made them more frightening. How many shots would it take to stop red Specters? They could run. They could run deeper inside the facility right now and hide, maybe, until dawn. There was time . . . not much time, but maybe just enough to get a safe distance away . . .

The Manteidos Specter’s knife-like forearms pushed through the steel shutters. The other two were halfway through now, their reptilian heads panning left and right. Their jaws opened and closed. What did they see? Gabriel wondered. What did they sense?

One glowing, reptilian red eye found Gabriel. The one in the center, larger than its sibling. Its eye stayed on Gabriel. Its crocodile jaws opened.

Maaaaaawwwwwwwwwww . . .

It could see him. It was choosing him. It would come after him the moment it was through the door. It was the predator and he was the prey, singled out for no apparent reason except that this particular Specter wanted him.

They had to run.

“Wait for my command,” Skye said. She aimed her rifle and fired at the Manteidos, peppering its body with blue proton bullets that tore through it, spilling yellow sparks. Its color dimmed to a dark orange, but only for a moment as it began drawing energy from the other two. The Manteidos Specter’s red color returned at the expense of its companions.

“Skye,” Gabriel tried to whisper, but his voice caught in his throat, choking him. A tear squeezed out of his left eye. His entire body felt numb, his legs quivering, the VR pistol shaking in his hand. Underneath his glove, he could feel the sweat on his palms squishing against the fabric. Why had they done this? Why had they come to this place? They were just kids. They weren’t heroes. They weren’t a real Coterie. Real Coteries were made up of real adults who knew what they were doing.

The Manteidos Specter reached down and grabbed the floor. Its sharp claws disappeared into the concrete. It pulled its heavy body through the steel shutters — it was glowing so brightly that Gabriel’s smartglasses automatically shut off the night vision setting.

“Ben and Historian, focus your fire on the Sebecus in the middle,” Skye ordered. “Gabriel, help me with the bug. Everyone else focus on the Sebecus to the far right. Squeeze the trigger slowly so you maintain your aim.”

The big Sebecus in the middle was still staring at Gabriel. It saw him. If it came through . . ., it would come right for him. Knowing that sent his creative mind into a frenzy, imagining what would happen: a pair of jaws closing over his shield, draining it. The ghost-like teeth passing through his body, robbing him of his very soul . . .

He tried to protest, but his lungs were drowned with fear. And then Skye shouted “Now!” and it was too late. Everyone began firing, their blue proton bullets ripping through the air and tearing into the Specters. Gabriel aimed at the big Sebecus, right for the creature’s eye. He fired again and again, feeling the pistol gently kick with each pull of the trigger. He wanted to kill it himself. He wanted to punish it for even thinking of making him a victim. This was his planet. His, not theirs.

The Sebecus Specter’s ethereal body ripped apart with each bullet. Its glow diminished, the red fading to orange, like a flame desperately licking at a nearly spent piece of wood. The Sebecus let out a long moan, opening its mouth wide. Gabriel fired at its mouth, feeling a rush of satisfaction when one of the bullets cut through its tongue. The tongue exploded like a Carnivale firework, gently fluttering to the ground in a spray of yellow ashes.

“Die,” Gabriel whispered, squeezing the trigger again and again. “Die!”

The big Sebecus Specter’s color faded. It pulled its humanoid arms through the shutters, its body turning a cloudy yellow. Gabriel kept firing, unable to keep his finger from pulling the trigger again and again. How dare it mark him for death? How dare it treat him like prey? Was it still there, or was it simply his eyes playing a trick on him? The glow was still there. He could still see it every time he blinked. He kept firing.

“Stop! Stop!” Skye shouted.

Gabriel stopped. His glasses readjusted just in time to see Skye walking over, reaching up with her rifle and using its butt to swat his pistol out of his hand. “What was that?” she asked. She turned to her brother. “Did you see the other one die?”

Cassidy shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “It might have drawn more energy from the others.”

“What happened?” Ben asked. “Are we safe?”

“We don’t know,” Skye snarled. She pointed the butt of her VR rifle at Gabriel. He cringed, half-expecting her to smack him across the face. “Mr. Parliament here was shooting at the wrong Specter. I said shoot the bug.”

Gabriel felt anger course through him. “I helped . . .”

“You didn’t help,” Skye said, turning back to him and glaring. “You did the opposite of helping. We could have killed all three Specters if you’d just listened to me. Now the alpha got away, and who knows what it’s going to do? It could come back. It could call for help. We have no idea.”

“It’s wounded,” Gabriel said shakily. His glasses readjusted to the darkness as the last few yellow shards of ash faded. His trembling body told him they were safe again. So why was Skye so angry? “You had to have wounded it. It’s . . . I mean, when dawn comes, it’s going to go underground and then we’ll be safe.”

“Or it’ll try and get back in here,” Skye said. “With some extra friends.”

“It’s possible,” Ben said gently, “but unlikely. We don’t know with certainty just how complicated the Specter communication system is.”

“Why didn’t you just listen to me?” Skye asked Gabriel, in his face now so close that he could smell her damp breath. “I knew what I was doing!”

A voice in Gabriel’s head told him to apologize. It was his fault and he’d made a mistake. He’d shot at the big Sebecus because it had made things personal. Or . . . at least, Gabriel had perceived it that way. But stubbornness got the best of him and so he stayed quiet. He wouldn’t give the Spartan the satisfaction of dressing him down, even here in the pitch-blackness of a secret research facility and why-oh-why hadn’t they just gone home?

There was a wounded Specter outside. They were trapped inside this place, with whatever other dangers that existed here, until dawn. His fault and no one else’s.

“Um,” Ben said. “Cleo, can you get us some lights?”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Her shadowy green figure moved to the other side of the loading bay, near a small office lined with wide windows. “All this excitement and I totally forgot we’re hanging out in the dark. Imagine that.”

Skye took a deep breath, holstering her VR rifle to the magnetic strip on her back. She looked at her brother, giving him a quick nod. The boy holstered his pistols, then put an arm around Wei’s shoulder. Gabriel wanted to tell him to let go, but then Cassidy was urging her toward him. She ran into his arms and he knelt down, hugging her tight. He could smell the sweet, flowery scent of her favorite shampoo in her hair.

“I don’t ever want to see a Specter again,” she whispered.

“Let’s try to make that a reality,” he told her. “As soon as dawn breaks, we’re getting out of here. I’m sorry for dragging you here, little bug.”

The lights turned on. Gabriel’s glasses again turned off the night vision setting, eliminating the green tint on everything. Wei was Wei again. He looked around. The loading bay reached up two stories, with thin lights running between a crane system made up of magnetic tracks attached to steel beams built into the rock. Half the lights weren’t functioning, leaving the entire loading bay in a dim, half-darkness. There was just enough light for Gabriel to see that the large shipping crates stacked on the opposite end had no company logo printed on the side. No insignia of any kind.

Cleo was standing at the entrance to the small office. There were two computer consoles inside, along with two chairs. Only one chair was empty. The other chair was pushed up against a corner, beside a tall control panel whose touchscreen was in the process of rebooting. A man sat in the chair, staring up at the ceiling, his mouth hanging open. His skin was wrinkled and gray. His fingers looked tense, as if he’d been clutching some imaginary object.

“Gross!” Reza said. Cleo turned and, seeing the body, hurried out of the room with a terrified squeal.

“There were others outside,” Ben said. “They were killed before they made it inside.”

“. . . Or they died protecting the facility,” Skye added. “This was a bad idea.”

Ben offered the Historian a hand, pulling him to his feet. The Historian’s gun was hanging limply in his hand. Had he fired at all? It wasn’t just Gabriel’s fault, then. Had Skye seen that?

Stop trying to spread the blame, he told himself. Accept responsibility.

No. He wouldn’t.

Don’t be stubborn.

He was trying not to. He just . . . couldn’t not be stubborn.

“Does this facility have a Xenoshield?” Ben asked Cleo.

“Yeah, but it’s totally shot,” Cleo said, looking up toward the ceiling. Gabriel followed her eyes, then realized she was looking at something on her contact lenses. “Their little Phenocyte reactor’s preamplified lasers are all out of . . .alignment.”

“What does that mean?” Skye asked.

“It means something interrupted the controlled ignition process. And given that the doors are locked . . .”

“There was a malfunction,” Ben finished. “So we can’t turn the shield back on.”

Cleo shook her head. She glanced toward the dead body in the office, then took another step away from it. “This entire base is running on an emergency gravity battery. It’s at about seventy percent capacity. I’ve got the lights on and the doors unlocked and the main CPU powered up . . . beyond that, we’ve got nothing.”

Gabriel watched the little Athenian girl wrap her arms around Ben’s waist. Reza was looking at his sister, maybe trying to figure out a way to run over to her without looking childish. The Spartan boy didn’t seem to have any such notions in his head, content to stay near the shipping containers, his body leaning just a little bit as if it was fighting the urge to hide behind them. He’d taken off one glove and was chewing on his knuckles, looking up at the big steel boxes.

“So we’re here,” Ben said. “Now what?”

“We do a quick search,” Gabriel answered without hesitation. His voice sounded unsure so he took a deep breath, steadying himself before continuing. This is all being recorded, he reminded himself. He needed to represent his family. He couldn’t make another mistake. “We came here to respond to a distress call, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

Skye didn’t respond. Gabriel had expected another retort, but the Spartan girl had apparently expended all of her anger. Good. Because really, it wasn’t all his fault. The Historian probably hadn’t used his pistol at all, and not because he was maintaining his oath. At least Gabriel had shot at something.

Just the wrong one.

According to the Spartan.

“I’m pulling up a map of the facility,” Cleo said. She tapped her finger on her VRacelet. “I’ll upload it to your glasses. OK. So look: the loading bay leads to two different sectors. Sector One is the research labs. That’s a Level One clearance, hoo boy, and it’s locked down tight. Sector Two has a mess hall and residencies and leads deeper, to the Phenocyte reactor.”

“Are there any logs?” Ben asked. “I know when we have a lab lockdown, the computer logs everything.”

Cleo clicked her tongue. “Hmmmm . . . lots of restricted access. From what the computer will tell me — and keep in mind it’s not much — it looks like there was a lot of activity in Sector Two in the last couple days.”

“I’ll take the Historian,” Skye said. “We’ll search for survivors. The rest of you stay here and make sure nothing else gets in.”

“I’ll keep snooping through the data,” Cleo offered. She stepped back inside the small control room and very carefully turned the dead body in its seat so it was facing away from her. She tapped her finger on the big touchscreen on the wall, moving inhumanly fast through the programs. “They’ve got an incredible amount of encrypted storage off-cloud and about a dozen suspicious search strings in this console’s cache. Maybe I can get a better idea of what caused the distress signal.”

“Are you sure you don’t want anyone else with you?” Ben asked Skye. “Um, I’m not great with a pistol, but I can hold my own.”

“That’s why you should stay here,” Skye said. She turned to Cassidy. “We have to hold out until morning now, no matter whether we find survivors.”

“If there are survivors, they may be injured,” Ben pointed out.

She gave him a funny look. Very un-Spartan-like, Gabriel thought. Almost warm, if Spartans were capable of such a look. “If there are injured survivors, I’ll contact you.”

Gabriel didn’t like the idea of the Historian going. He may not have liked Skye, but he valued her at the very least. And maybe he could redeem himself in her eyes if he proved to her he was useful. “I could go,” Gabriel offered, forcing a weak smile, “if you promise not to shoot me in the back. I have more experience with pistols than the Historian.”

Seamus raised a finger. “He makes a good point.”

Skye shook her head. “The son of Carmen Martinez isn’t expendable. The Historian is.”

So there it was. Finally out in the open. No more dancing around it. Still, the cold truth hit Gabriel hard. It angered him because deep down, he knew Skye was right. As the son of a famous Parliamentarian, he was considered more valuable than any of them. He was a freeborn child of Carmen Martinez, she who united all of Neo Berlin’s districts to pass sweeping Basic Income reforms that gave everyone an extra twenty credits per month. She who mended the rift between the Cryotec Corporation and the Geneti-bank Corporation, ensuring a fully operational gene bank and backup system on the Ark.

Gabriel got special privileges. He was something else, and so was Wei.

He was, technically, in less danger than others. Had it clouded his judgment, allowing him to rush to the conclusion that they should respond to this facility’s distress call, knowing that the others would be expected to give their lives before him? He didn’t know. It should never have gone this far. They were all in danger here in this place that shouldn’t exist, surrounded by creatures that shouldn’t exist, waiting for daylight to save them.

“Look,” Skye said. “This place is dead quiet, and there are only two probable reasons. We don’t need a Historian to tell us that.”

Seamus cleared his throat. “She means it’s very likely everyone in this facility is either dead or hiding.”

“Duh,” Cleo said.

“If everyone is dead,” Skye said, “then we need to secure the facility. If they’re hiding, that means that the only threat is outside, and the only way in is through those shutters.”

Of course — hiding wouldn’t help. The Specters didn’t simply give up. All the old footage of the invasion . . . the Specters were methodical and relentless. Gabriel cursed himself for even thinking about hiding. He looked at the others, wondering if any might argue. The kids were silent; Reza and Wei were both looking in the direction of the corpse inside the little office. Tahlia, too, only the Athenian girl wore a curious, interested expression. Ben was the only one who still didn’t look fully convinced. But he kept his mouth shut.

“OK,” Skye said. “We’ll be back.”

“Please be careful,” Ben whispered.

They made their way to the rear of the loading bay, toward the large steel door marked with a 2 and lined with horizontal strips of red, blue, purple and white paint. Gabriel bit his lip, stifling anger. His vote could have changed things. His vote could have sent them back to the safety of the city and instead all he’d been fretting about what the people would think. What his mother would think. What it would look like if the press knew that Parliament’s favorite son ignored a distress call.

Now they were here, in terrible danger.

And the others would be expected to give their lives to save Gabriel and Wei.

Chapter 18: Seamus Oshiro

Historian

The steel door slid shut behind them, clanging unexpectedly loud as its horizontal interlocking edges came together. Seamus wasn’t used to doors like that. All of the doors in the Alexandria complex were near-silent, designed to enhance tranquility. Ambient sound, as a rule, was a disturbing sensory intrusion. Music was worse.

“I should confess,” he whispered, clearing his throat. “I only went through one firearms training module.”

“Are you going to keep doing that?” Skye asked, slowing down so that she was walking side-by-side with him. As they walked, the hallway’s thin lights along the top of the walls blinked on. The hallway was wide, industrial, with steel grated floors and simple curved white walls.

“Doing what?”

“Clearing your throat. It’s distracting. And dangerous.”

“How so?” he asked, curious. That a Spartan should worry about something so trivial interested him enough to temporarily put his fears on hold.

“I can very easily imagine a scenario where we’re hiding,” Skye said, licking her lips, “and then you clear your throat, giving away our position.”

“I would offer assurances to the contrary, but I doubt you would believe me. And also: you have a nervous habit, too. You lick your lips.”

She grunted, which he assumed was an affirmation. They walked slowly down the empty hallway. The white walls were smooth to the touch and lined with the colors of the clans. Purple for Clan Persia. Red for Clan Sparta. Blue for Clan Athens. It had a very sterile feel to it, though the smell was anything but. The stench invoked vivid memories of Seamus’s third-grade classroom during a week when the campus’s environmental controls shut off, leaving thirty third-graders soaking in their own sweat with no air circulation.

“These are storage rooms,” Skye said, nodding her head toward the sealed doors on either side of the wall. “According to Cleo’s map, at least.”

“Do you not trust her?” Seamus asked.

“I trust her just fine,” Skye snapped. “They’re locked, and we’re talking at a normal volume.”

“Ergo, if someone was hiding inside, they would have come out by now.”

“Exactly.”

“It smells strange,” he noted, trying to be helpful.

“That’s an understatement.”

“True. It smells awful.”

“Spoiled food. The cafeteria is up ahead. We need to be careful.” They were at the end of the hall now. Skye stopped a few inches away from the sliding door, checking her rifle’s power supply.

“You’re hesitant?” Seamus asked.

“I’m careful. Spoiled food means someone didn’t have time to clean up before, during, or after things got bad. Draw your pistol.”

He did as he was told, feeling the pistol’s hilt magnetically connect with the sensors on his glove. His gloves were uncomfortable, and possibly the wrong size. They seemed a bit too small, which he assumed would only hinder his ability to shoot straight. “Skye, I notice a spare latch on your belt.”

“And?”

“Before, it held a spare clip for your VR rifle. But you placed it in the Tumbler’s charging compartment and forgot about it. You only have one spare clip.”

Skye’s hand went to her belt. She cursed under her breath.

Seamus searched for something encouraging to say. “You’ll hardly need me for anything we may face, I’m sure. You’ve averaged eighty-eight percent in your classes thus far.”

She looked at him sharply. “How do you know my grades?”

“Because I was told to look them up. I was expected to know about everyone in the Coterie before the Proving.”

“And you just memorized all of it.”

“Yes,” he said. They passed a door to their right, and Seamus felt his legs move a little quicker to get him past it. His head was flooded with images of the Specters forcing their way through the steel shutters. “I have a very good memory.”

“Good for you.” Skye sighed. “That’s me, all right. Eighty-eight percent. A Jack of all Trades, master of none.”

“Skye, may I ask you a question? I must confess it is not simply for Historical records . . . I’m also curious.”

“If it helps you achieve your noble purpose,” she said the last two words with some acidity, he noted, “then by all means, Historian.”

“When we were in the station ready to leave, your father told you not to fail him again. I don’t understand. During your first Proving when you were thirteen years old, it was you who destroyed the Specter and saved your squad mates. Does your father not know this?”

“He knows it,” she said. Her hard tone faltered a bit. She cleared her throat, and Seamus bit his tongue to point out the hypocrisy. “Because the New Adults didn’t protect us, the Coterie failed its Proving, and that’s all that General Mitchell cared about.”

“But the Young Adults are not graded,” Seamus said. “The first Proving is merely experience, an opportunity to see the world beyond the shield and understand the weight of responsibility of the human race —”

“I know, I know.” She pulled back her curly red hair. “But that doesn’t matter to Father. He wants perfection. And I’m not perfect.”

The confession seemed to disarm the young woman. Seamus searched for something more reassuring, if only to bolster her confidence. Confident Spartans had a tendency to overperform in combat situations, historically speaking. “You are better than me at weapons proficiency, at least. I won’t be much help.”

“You’ll be plenty of help.” Skye smiled, and Seamus mistook it at first as something genuine and warm. He felt a warm rush of relief flood through his body. “If anything’s in there, you’re going to be the bait.”

The relief faded. “The . . . the bait?”

Skye nodded. “You’re going to distract it. I’m going to shoot it.”

Seamus, horrified, felt as if he might cry. “You can’t be serious!”

“Is your personal shield still working?”

He looked down at the small device attached to his belt. “Yes. I think so. I can’t be sure . . .”

“Tell your glasses to bring up your shield monitor.”

“Chi, bring up my shield monitor.” He waited. Nothing.

“I thought you had a good memory,” Skye said with a devilish smile. She seemed to enjoy his suffering. “Chi, shield status.”

“Chi, shield status,” he repeated. The little green bar appeared in the lower corner of his right lens. And he did have a good memory. The truth was that he’d skipped a handful of days during the mandatory Spartan-led defense training. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to learn; it was the atmosphere. The Spartan instructors put every child through basic survival training, but it was the kids destined to be part of a Coterie who were singled out for the toughest treatment. That meant extra activities. Pistol training. Specter escape tactics. Shouting. Screaming. Crying.

And had Seamus attended, he would have remembered all of it. Every. Single. Second.

Now, at the doors leading into the cafeteria, he faltered. He wanted to voice his worries, but before he could confess, Skye was behind him, hands on his back, pushing him right at the door. The door slid open before he could reach it. He cried out, unable to stop his momentum, stepping into the next room while his wobbly legs did their best to keep him from falling over. He held out his hands, planted his left foot, and held out his pistol at nothing in particular. Eyes closed. It was foolish but it seemed the best way to die.

When death didn’t arrive, he opened his eyes. And gasped.

“Well,” Skye said from behind him. “This explains a bit.”

Dozens of bodies littered the cafeteria. Most were wearing simple civilian clothes: tight-fitting black slacks and a button-down long-sleeved shirt dyed a neutral tan color — the preferred fashion style for the past twelve years. A few wore white lab coats. Men and women, none too young, suggesting a certain degree of experience shared between them. One was wearing an Ecosuit, his VR rifle resting beside his body. A Spartan. Someone, in a mad dash to escape, had stepped on the Spartan’s smartglasses.

“Are they . . . is it . . .?” Seamus struggled for words. He’d been able to keep his distance from the other body. He’d catalogued Mrs. Walker’s name and approximate age, and had done his best to observe Ben’s brief autopsy.

Closing his eyes only once when the Athenian sliced the dried, gray skin.

Skye went first to the Spartan, reaching under the collar of his Ecosuit and pulling out one of two ID chips. She knelt beside him with her fist to her forehead, a traditional motion of respect that dated back some 347 years. When the moment was finished, she put the chip in her utility belt. She checked the VR rifle’s clip, but didn’t grab it. Seamus speculated that it was empty, which meant the Spartan had shot at something.

Black proton marks peppered the walls.

“Hello,” she called out, rifle ready.

The corpses were silent. Most were lying on the floor but three were still sitting at one of the tables on the far end, off to the left where the walls were lined with viewscreens. Two women and a man, sitting at their table, their heads resting on their plates of spoiled meat covered in white sauce that had caked to their gray skin. Behind them, the viewscreen hanging on the wall was cracked. The one beside it cycled through images of Neo Berlin’s different districts. In each picture, the Ring loomed in the sky behind the towers — a reminder, perhaps, of the facility’s mission.

Yes . . . the mission.

“We should not be here,” he whispered. He wished he was back at the Archives, where it was safe and protected from Specters and people alike. From the balcony of his room in Babel Tower, Seamus could see the entire southern edge of the massive metropolis of Neo Berlin. He could see the fireworks, the smoke rising from the burning specter effigies during Carnivale. He could hear people shouting with glee and screaming and it all conjured up memories of the Specter invasion. No one seemed to see it except Seamus, which had only infuriated him. Carnivale was a celebration so eerily similar to humanity’s darkest hour that video footage of the two was nearly interchangeable.

Save for the casualties.

Carnivale had once been a ceremony. Humans once believed they could chase away spirits by performing fire rituals. It was a contest, a celebration, a chance for revelry and a tradition to bury old grudges, forgive and cancel debts. After the Specters were defeated, Carnivale had . . . evolved. It had become grander. Louder. Seamus hated it not only because it conjured horrible images in his head, but because he couldn’t participate, and no one invited him to do so.

“There,” Skye said, pointing. “It came through the wall. The people sitting at the table must have watched it emerge. The circuits in the viewscreen malfunctioned as the Specter came through.” She walked slowly between a pair of bodies, aiming her rifle in every direction. On the other end of the cafeteria was a stainless steel countertop with a handful of packages of breakfast food laid out in a row. Behind the counter was a grill.

“They cooked their own food,” Skye marveled, weaving her way around the circular tables. “Nice to know they were being taken care of.”

Seamus warily followed her, trying to keep his eyes forward so he wouldn’t spot any more of the bodies. An uncomfortably warm uneasiness had spread through his legs, running up his body. “You were right,” he told her. “About not coming here. It’s clear there’s a danger, and the people here are all dead. We must return to the loading bay and contact Parliament.”

“I’ve never had something off a grill,” Skye said. She looked around again, sweeping her VR rifle in a wide arc. “Once, for survival training, we cooked a rabbit stew. We used the bone for a stock. There’s probably a freezer in the back of the kitchen. They could have received a shipment of food and stayed here for months. Maybe years. Something special was going on here.”

“It’s not our business.”

She stopped, examining him. She had piercing green eyes; they made Seamus uncomfortable. But being here made him uncomfortable, too. What was worse? Being here was worse. Knowing what this place was and not being authorized to tell anyone else . . . that was the worst feeling of all.

Maybe he could tell her. Just a little bit.

No. It was classified. This place . . .

“We have to leave,” he blurted out. “We’re not safe.”

“What do you know?” she asked, suspicious—no, strike that. Speculation.

“I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes were darting around now, his brain recording the massacre with precise detail. Memories flooding into his mind’s eye, threatening to knock him over. Details. Classified information that couldn’t be trusted inside standard CPU systems. Information he shouldn’t have seen but couldn’t unsee. A carelessly mislaid document here, a note left on an instructor’s desk there . . . Seamus remembered all of them and now his brain was piecing them together.

Specters held in captivity.

Tests.

The image of Mrs. Walker flashed in his mind’s eye. She looked at him accusingly. He could count the wrinkles on her gray skin as if she were still lying in front of him. He could see the chipped red fingernail polish on her right index finger. He could even count the old ear piercing scars on her left ear.

Three scars.

“We’ll check the living quarters and then we’ll get out of here,” Skye said, the hard edge on her voice at least temporarily gone.

Seamus exhaled in relief. He followed her past the counter, to a pair of doors on the other end of the cafeteria. They passed into another hallway, identical to the last one only a few degrees cooler. Seamus could feel the change on his cheeks. The muscle under his right eye twitched. One of the narrow lights above them blinked off and on; his body was hesitant to pass under it while it was off, putting too much space between himself and Skye. He hurried to catch up to her as soon as the light blinked on again.

“Spartan,” he started, fighting the urge to clear his throat. “If whatever killed those people is still here, where would you expect it to hide?”

“Underground,” she answered. “Right under our feet, most likely. Waiting.”

He’d hoped for a different answer. “And what if it’s hiding somewhere ahead?”

“That’s why you’re going first.”

He stopped and turned. She’d silently stepped right behind him.

“Just go. Your shield will protect you. I won’t let you die.”

“I doubt that,” he said, forcing his legs to keep moving. The sooner they went through the living quarters, the sooner they could leave. “You clearly don’t like me.”

“It’s nothing personal.”

“What a relief.”

She chuckled. “I didn’t know Historians could have a sense of humor. I thought that was beaten out of you while you were kids.”

“And I’ve heard that Spartans throw all the weak babies off a cliff,” he snapped, angry. Stupid, stupid, he thought. This was all being recorded by his smartglasses. When he returned to Alexandria, he would be disciplined. Not a beating, but perhaps a menial task for a number of months. Something simple and mind-numbing like verifying records of other Provings.

Provings no doubt less exciting than this. Why was his luck so awful, he wondered? It felt as if his life was one long string of bad situations. From the very first Historical lecture on paleontology where he was the only child to not have username and password set up on his notescreen, to his selection for Level Two clearance. Why had he, of all people, been granted more responsibilities? He didn’t ask for them. Level Two clearance meant only more History to memorize, and more interactions with Parliament, which meant more practice with diplomacy.

And more opportunities for mistakes.

“You’re not quite so reserved as other Historians,” Skye noted. “I like it. It doesn’t change my opinion of your people, but at least it makes you more tolerable . . . more so than many of your peers. If we get out of here alive, I’ll be glad to have you in our Coterie.”

Seamus, surprised, temporarily forgot all about the horrifying bodies he’d just seen. “I’m honored.”

“I still don’t trust you,” she added. “And I’m still using you as a shield. But I won’t let you die. Human life is precious.”

Before his memory could conjure the particular speech when General Mitchell had uttered those exact words, Seamus felt her hand press against his back, nudging him through the doorway, into the living quarters. It was as he expected: an empty, well-decorated Commons room complete with a small standing bar, plush gray couches circling a holo-bulb in the floor and an old-fashioned table tennis table at the far end. It was grand, leveled on one side where three couches surrounded the holo-bulb. The room was shaped in a circle, and along the walls to their right and left were doors leading to individual living quarters. Some were open, some closed.

“No shortage of amenities,” Skye murmured, stepping beside him. She looked down and took a cautious step onto the thick, carpeted floor.

“Are you perhaps envious?” Seamus asked. When she turned and looked sharply at him, he felt his back stiffen. “I only ask because Clan Sparta offers so little in recreation. I imagine it must be difficult at times, seeing others enjoying the fruits of humanity’s labors.”

“I’m curious,” Skye said, “because if Parliament is footing the bill for real food and holo-screens and alcohol and plush couches, then this place is important.”

“Holo-bulbs, technically. And it’s not our business. You know this.” Seamus followed her to the center of the Commons room, his gun held limply in his hand. The girl was smart. If the others decided to be as curious as her, it wouldn’t be long before they pieced together the horrible reality of this place. Then there would be consequences — not for Seamus, perhaps, but for the others. If they survived, they would know things they shouldn’t know.

Life would change. They would be removed from their classes, perhaps even forced to live in a research facility just like this one, sworn to secrecy on penalty of death. It would be the only way. And that was just the New Adults! The Young Adults would be at the mercy of one of Parliament’s merciless tribunals. For thirteen-year-old children to know the horrible truths . . . they would never be able to keep a secret. Desperate measures would need to be taken.

It wasn’t Seamus’s problem. He mustn’t waste his time thinking about it.

Still . . .

He followed Skye from room to room. Some of the beds were made, some of the rooms clean and organized. Other rooms were littered with clothes and 3D-prints of office supplies that littered the little white desks beside the beds. In one bed lay the corpse of a woman, still tucked in, her eyes open and staring at the ceiling, one hand her face, touching her gray skin as if in shock. Seamus looked away quickly, stepping out of the room before his nose could inhale the strange, bitter dry scent of the shriveled body. The woman’s room had had a distinct pop flavor: a bubblegum pink harmonica and a viewscreen still of the electronica band Tokyo Rosa hanging on the wall, not to mention a neon pink Tokyo Rosa t-shirt laying crumpled on the floor. Tokyo Rosa used a harmonica in some songs . . . perhaps the woman had tried to play along in her spare time. There had also been notes taped to her vanity mirror, dozens of them, leaving barely enough room to fit her reflection.

Laundry tomorrow.

Re-test specimen 3-X-14.

Archive messages before Kaleb blows his top.

Even after only a glance, Seamus remembered it all.

“Skye,” Cleo’s voice came in through their earpieces. On Seamus’s glasses, the words INCOMING: CLEO, CLAN PERSIA appeared in green letters.

Skye stepped out of the bedroom, pulling a stray strand of curly hair behind her ear. “Go ahead.”

“We’re . . . the . . . power . . .”

“Hold on,” Skye said, walking away from the door. She stood beside the glass countertop of the bar. “You’re breaking up. Say again.”

“We’re getting a battery drain,” Cleo said, “and it’s coming from somewhere inside the research labs. Ben and I . . . knock it out of commission . . . before . . . lose power.”

Seamus felt his chest tighten. “I wouldn’t recommend —”

“Go for it,” Skye said. Her finger had found a sticky brown stain on the bar countertop, tapping on it a few times. The stain clung to her glove. Multiple glasses had been knocked over, spilling their contents across the glass. Behind the countertop was a frosted glass partition with shelves of alcohol bottles — in the reflection, Seamus watched Skye’s facial expression relax, her eyes reading the labels of the bottles.

Seamus followed her behind the bar. His lips felt numb and tingly. Sweat puckered his forehead. “Cleo and Ben must not enter the research labs . . .”

“This is whisky.” She searched the bottles, pulling one with a black label from the second shelf. It was half-full. “My father drinks this whisky. Two fingers. In a little glass that he got from Parliament in recognition of some service his Coterie performed.”

“An achievement award,” Seamus recited from memory, “for valor during a rescue operation of a passenger vehicle transporting foodstuffs to the protected city of Tristan.”

She shook her head. “This isn’t cheap. You need grain crops and machines to harvest the crops. You need a still made of copper. You need to age the whisky, which takes time.” She poured a few drops into one of the little glasses sitting on a thin rubber mat on one side of the counter. “And then you have to stomach the taste. You need a good reason to drink it.”

“That whisky brand has a history of over seven hundred years,” Seamus said, unable to control the information from being recalled. He shook the thoughts away. “Skye, Cleo must not go into the research labs.”

“My father painted a line on my forehead at Carnivale,” the young woman said, pressing a finger to her forehead. “He drew a single line himself, snatching the ink pen from the artist’s hand. He drew it right here. He said the line was for my real mother, my DNA mother, Skylar Morrison.”

“She was a famous jet pilot,” Seamus said. He cleared his throat, hoping he might appease her to keep her mind from wandering. “Her lineage is centuries old. She flew a single ramjet through a pirate outpost in the remote port city of Johannesburg. Skye, please listen to me. Cleo must be stopped. Now.”

“Why,” she asked absently, lifting the little glass above her head. She let the drop of whiskey land on her tongue. Her lips puckered. She was thinking about her father and the whisky he drank. Was she trying to understand him, perhaps? Did she really think that tasting what he tasted might give her some insight into his thoughts?

Had something happened to her at Carnivale? Seamus searched his memory, but found nothing of importance from the morning news feed. Citizens in each city-state celebrated Carnivale a little differently. Free citizens in Neo Berlin enjoyed elaborate costumes of ghosts and spirits and monsters, a deliberate show of resistance intended to reduce the terror of the Ring. Amsterdam lit up the sky with bonfires, culling a centuries-old tradition of lighting the way for lost souls. Rio citizens danced all night long. Clan Persia mostly avoided spectacle, unless there was new technology to showcase. Athenians were encouraged to mingle, to interact with people outside their clan, because Clan Athens treasured the diversity and social relationships. Spartans could relax a bit during Carnivale, enough to allow themselves a single pleasure: face painting.

Skye probably didn’t know the history of it, which Seamus thought was a shame. The tradition was as old as the human race, and harkened back to a time when Nonam Wounaan people used ink to “draw” ancestral knowledge onto new generations. It was a fascinating history. A beautiful history of transmission and tradition kept alive first with the ink of a plant, then ink printed on paper, then inside a microchip guarded in Spartan safe vaults.

What knowledge did Skye desire?

Seamus followed her around the bar, to another door. It slid open, revealing another empty room, clean and organized with the pillows sitting on top of the tightly made bed sheets. “Spartan. This is a Level One research facility.”

“Move.”

He stepped aside. She opened the next door, pointing her rifle inside. There was a small, old-fashioned desk lamp sitting on the desk inside, and drawings of animals spread over the surface. A hobby, perhaps. Something to log away, for when the Historians pieced together what happened. The family of whoever lived here would enjoy the little details, something to cling to while they mourned.

He again shook the thoughts away. Curse his memory. Curse his brain. “Please, Skye, I must insist.”

She turned to him. Her pale lips looked dry, and two lines of dirt ran along her freckled left cheek. She could pass for someone five years older, he thought; the Spartan New Adults always could.

“This a Level One research facility.”

“You said that.”

“We don’t have clearance. Please, I know you do not trust me, but you must consider what Cleo is about to do. She will be breaking the law if she enters that facility.”

“If she doesn’t shut off whatever’s draining the battery, we’ll lose all power. Our chances of survival drop.”

“And if they enter the research labs, there is no going back,” Seamus said. He couldn’t control the nerves and his voice squeaked and cracked. Shaky. Uncertain. He tried to so hard to control it and had done so well and now all that control was coming undone in front of this Spartan. She would no doubt think him weak. Weaker.

“Fresh food, fresh alcohol, all the amenities,” Skye said. Seamus could see a fiery intelligence behind her green eyes. Intelligence and suspicion. “What was given up, that Parliament had to offer so much?”

“I cannot tell you. I swear to you I would if only I could.”

Skye’s eyes narrowed. She reached up and tapped the side of her glasses to open a communication channel. “Cleo, hold your position. We’re almost finished searching the rooms.”

They waited for a response.

“Cleo. Can you hear me?”

“We must return to the loading bay,” Seamus said.

“We need to check the last few rooms for survivors.”

“Skye, please believe me when I tell you that whatever exists inside those labs is not for our eyes. Please. Please trust me just this once. I say this for your sake and for the sake of the Coterie. For the New Adults and the Young Adults.”

She studied him a moment more, then slowly nodded. “OK. So let’s go.”

They made their way across the Commons room, into the hallway leading to the cafeteria. Seamus was walking fast, faster than he ever had inside the city, inside the safety of the shield. Historians were always taught tranquility and due diligence and patience but now he could feel a tense anxiety coursing through his body like a flooding river. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Nothing could stop him. They would thank him some day for this. When they had their dream jobs and nice families and everything else normal people wanted . . .

“Seamus!” Skye screamed.

He saw it out of the corner of his eye and his entire body went limp. Fiery red crocodile jaws opened, closing around Seamus’s body. It passed through the wall like a ghost, effortlessly and without pause so that it pressed against his Xenoshield and pinned him to the floor. This was it. The Specter would pass through him and his body would shut down and then everything would go black. He wanted to shut his eyes but he was too afraid and so in a moment of pure defiance — or perhaps subconsciously it was to simply catalogue the historic moment — he turned his head to face it.

The giant Sebecus Specter’s razor-sharp teeth stopped just an inch from his skin. The shield shimmered; each glowing red tooth sent ripples across the bubble-like forcefield. His elbow hurt. The muscles in his back stung, but it could have been worse without the Ecosuit. Still, he’d fallen hard and the Specter, almost entirely through the wall, was pressing down on him and he could feel it. He could see the scales on the creature’s glowing dark red skin. He could see purplish veins underneath the scales. He could see the door leading to the cafeteria through the creature.

It was terrifying. And with each passing fraction of a second, his sharpened memory had that much more to store away. Even if he survived, this creature would haunt him like a ghost until the day he died. Better to die. Better to let this be the end.

His right arm stung when he tried to move it so he held out his left hand. The shield kept his palm from touching the creature’s neck but he reached out anyway, feeling the force of the shield press against the creature, feeling the creature push back. His body was numb. He was prey caught in the jaws of a lion.

In the corner of his right lens, his shield meter slowly drained, turning from bright green to dull yellow.

Suddenly, the Specter’s neck exploded as a blue Proton bullet ripped through it. The creature let out a low moan and turned its head. More blue bullets pierced its body. It turned, stepping off Seamus and moving toward Skye. She fired a half-dozen more shots, and each little blue bullet ripped through the creature’s body with deadly precision, leaving little holes that spewed yellow sparks. The Specter’s long, spiked tail lingered over Seamus, wagging left and right, disappearing partway into the wall. Even after being shot half a dozen times, it was still glowing blood-red.

Never in his memory had he seen one with so much power.

“Seamus,” Skye said, her voice shaky. “Draw your pistol. Aim for one of its legs.”

Seamus felt a bead of sweat slip around his thin eyebrow, traveling into his left eye. It stung. He could taste copper on his tongue. His hand found his pistol. He pulled it from his belt. “I . . . I’m not a Spartan . . .”

“My battery is almost dead,” Skye said. All calmness had escaped her voice. She’d stepped back, only a few paces away from the door leading into the Commons area. The Specter loomed between them, moving silently on the steel floor grates toward Skye.

Its moan seemed to echo above them.

Seamus pointed the pistol. The barrel shook uncontrollably. He tried to steady it but the Specter was moving faster now, its thick rear legs carrying it as if it was more comfortable walking like a human than a reptile. Its back was hunched over, its tail swinging left and right like a shark propelling itself through water.

“Seamus!” Skye shouted, stepping back. She reached for the spare rifle clip at her belt but it slipped out of her hand, landing between her and the Specter.

Seamus pulled the trigger. The pistol kicked and a blue bullet flew out, cutting through the Specter’s rear leg. But the creature refused to stop, reaching the door at the end of the hallway and then disappearing through it.

Both the creature and Skye were gone.

Chapter 19: Benjamin Redcloud

Clan Athens

Ben watched Cleo tap wildly on her VRacelet while she explained how her hacking program worked. She seemed to be moving impossibly fast through the program she’d called up, as if it was anticipating half of her orders and carrying them out independently of her rapid finger strokes. Her explanations sounded like gibberish, but he nodded when appropriate to encourage her. This was clearly something she was proud of. Who was he to diminish that?

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “You’re wondering why their servers aren’t equipped to defend against my backdoor approach.” She chuckled, sliding her finger across her VRacelet’s screen to open up a second program. It took a moment to load. “It’s funny, actually. See, these kinds of closed computing systems are usually running a bunch of programs at once, and so what my special program does is it inserts about two hundred characters into various command functions, and those characters form a new chain of commands. So the computer checks the command, but at the same time it’s running this new chain of commands, overriding the system!”

“How did you write something like that?” he asked, astonished.

Another devious chuckle. “Oh, I’ve been known to sneak around a few computer systems in my time. For fun. And nothing too important, otherwise the wrong eyes might start noticing. Just a few credit machines here, a database there . . . See, most 4048-bit encryption keys are nearly indecipherable because you have to determine the two prime numbers that make up this huge integer. But this takes tons of computer processor power, so the trick is to link up with other computers …”

“Um, are you sure there’s no other way to do this?”

Cleo looked at him and rolled her eyes. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“No.” He sighed. He was thinking about Skye again. He felt guilty for doing it, too. They were on a rescue mission. There were dead people. And he was thinking about a Spartan girl in an entirely inappropriate sort of way, given the circumstances.

But it was normal, he reminded himself. Hormones and the such. Perfectly normal for a teenage boy, and that was what he was — he needed to remember that. He just needed to make sure he didn’t make the number-one mistake boys his age made: letting the hormones take control.

“Maybe there’s another way to stop the battery drain,” he offered. He didn’t want to tell her the truth: he wasn’t all that excited about breaking the security rules. He didn’t exactly know what Level One clearance was. He’d never seen it in any Clan Athens facility.

“This is a gravity battery,” Cleo murmured, still tapping away at her VRacelet’s touchscreen. “For months, maybe years, excess power from this facility’s Phenocyte reactor pumped water up the mountain to a storage tank. When emergency power is needed, the water flows back down and turns hundreds of little turbines. When the water runs out, we’ve got no more power. So we kinda need to preserve as much as we can.”

“Oh. That makes sense, I suppose.”

The large steel door slid open. “Got it!” Cleo exclaimed. “Boy-oh-boy, am I good. Come on.”

Ben followed her inside. Lights running along the ceiling automatically lit up. They were in a tall, circular room with another steel door at the other side. To their left, a wide computer screen turned on, welcoming them and warning that they would need to undergo the decontamination process. The door behind them shut.

The bitter scent of lemon filled Ben’s nostrils. He held his arms out like wings. Cleo looked at him, raising one thin, black eyebrow. “You have to hold your arms out,” he said.

“Please hold your arms out,” the computer’s soft, female voice requested. On the screen, a picture of a man and woman holding their arms out appeared. Cleo followed the directions, albeit not without wearing an annoyed face.

“It’s for the best,” Ben assured her. “These decontamination chambers are incredibly effective. Your people helped build them.”

“Not surprised. We Persians are pretty awesome.”

Ben’s brain barely registered the snark. He was thinking about Skye again. Something about her voice . . . like maybe there was a hidden element of vulnerability underneath all that authority and confidence. Or was that just something he’d seen in a movie? “She sounded a little weird.”

“Who?”

“Skye. When she told us to hold our position.”

“Maybe she’s a super-secret double agent and is actually working for the Specters.”

He forced himself not to smile. “That’s not funny.” It was, though. And the fact that Cleo could joke in a time like this actually made him grateful. She made everything feel less intense. He could only imagine her discomfort, being stuck with someone like him. He was utterly incapable of being less intense. It was the anxiety. He was just waiting for the next bad thing to happen. Expecting it.

“You’re right, I’m not funny at all. If anything, I’m too serious.” Cleo put her arms down. The computer screen announced that the decontamination process was finished, but the doors on the other side of the room remained shut. “Er, hold on. I need to hack this door, too. Stupid XP9-1 security features.”

“You’re funny,” Ben said. “Just . . . maybe a little inappropriate. I’m not sure you realize when you’re annoying other people.”

“We Persians aren’t known for our people skills. And I’m not here to make friends. In fact, I’d be happy to just get out of here alive at this point.”

“I think you’d make a good friend.”

She looked at him in surprise. Her light brown skin blushed just a bit. “Oh. Well, I didn’t say I was opposed to the idea.”

“Good.” Ben crossed his arms. It was obvious she’d taken his compliment the right way, and that pleased him. “I’d welcome your friendship.”

“Fine, we’re friends. Now stop being such a weirdo.”

“I wasn’t . . . uh, was I being weird?”

She nodded. Her dark hair fell over her face. She sighed and pulled it back, tying it in a ponytail to reveal the buzzed sides of her head. She checked her VRacelet again. “And stop saying um and uh so much. It’s not doing you any favors with the Spartan gal.”

Ben’s face and ears warmed. “Um, what do you mean?”

She looked at him, exasperated. “Dude. Pal. Dasher. You stare at her butt all the time.”

“I don’t!”

“You do.” She shrugged, turning back to her VRacelet and tapping a few buttons. “I don’t blame you. The girl’s got a nice butt. I wouldn’t mind a butt like hers.”

“Uh, you’re attractive, too . . .”

“Please, spare me the pity. You like her, not me. So what? I’ve got a boy back in the city.”

“You do?” Ben’s mind whirred. He may only have time for one question so he had to make it good and precise. “Where did you go on your first date?”

Cleo laughed. “Oh, he took me to an old-fashioned holo-arcade. Didn’t even let me use his credit chip. Can you believe that? I think he paid for a gourmet hot dog and we split it. And it wasn’t even real! It was a Krusto-Brand Synthdog, printed in this dirty old vending machine. I hate synthdogs.”

Ben was about to inform her about the amazing flavor advancements in lab-grown meats when the doors opened, revealing more darkness. Cleo entered before Ben could reach out and stop her. The moment she stepped inside, the overhead lights kicked on.

She stopped. Ben hadn’t yet taken a step but the moment his eyes took in the entire facility, his raced forward. Understanding hit harder than the Tumbler crashing through foliage. “No,” he whispered. “No no no no no no.”

The word just kept repeating until there was so little air left in his lungs that they ached. The blood escaped Ben’s head, causing him to go dizzy. He hurried inside, trying to take in everything while his brain struggled to make sense of the images. His eyes panned the massive research lab so fast that everything seemed blurry. It was the water in his eyes. Stinging, salty water . . . a reaction that could only be emotional.

He was on the verge of crying.

“No,” he croaked.

“Oh no way,” Cleo said. “No. Freaking. Way.”

To their right were computer terminals, each one sitting atop a tall glass table. On some of the tables were stacks of paper; others were cleaner, with simple mini-tablets and mugs of coffee and a few old-fashioned picto-screens that were still cycling through pictures of families — a boy, then a younger girl, then a man with a goatee kneeling beside both of them on green grass. On one of the tables, a holoscreen displayed a three-dimensional DNA helix, twisting hypnotically in the air. On another table, a touchscreen lay beside a knocked-over can of fizzy drink.

Resource nodules ran along the wall. Thick, reinforced tubes snaked out of the ceiling and disappeared underneath the steel grated floor. Multicolored wires ran to a containment module in the center of the lab. The module was about the size of a standard living room, only instead of couches and a holoscreen there were strange nozzles in the corners and reinforced glass cut into triangles and separated by steel. The thick wires ran along the base, slipping inside at tiered insertion points.

There was nothing inside. But the vidscreens hanging from the outside corners of the module told the story Ben needed to know: there had been a Sebecus Specter inside. The footage running on the screens was dated back just twenty hours ago. The Sebecus Specter, pacing inside the module, snapped its crocodile jaws at the camera. It was big, glowing a darker shade of red than Ben could have ever thought possible.

How had they captured it? A more terrible thought crept into Ben’s mind as he stared at the Specter’s reflection in the glass: had they fed it to increase its energy?

“Oh crap, Ben!” Cleo backed up and bumped into him. He held her steady, then gently moved her aside so he could see what had spooked her. He nearly fell back when he saw it.

Another Specter. Only this one was different. Smaller. Much, much smaller, encased in a glass tube like some kind of hideous museum display. A Manteidos, with four little undeveloped wings and a head with a rounded, underdeveloped crest. In Ben’s biology classroom, the instructor had kept a baby mammoth floating in a glass container, its little trunk curled protectively over its midsection. This Specter was a juvenile, too. Its body was curled up protectively, its bulbous insect eyes staring out.

“There’s a shield,” Cleo said in a shaky voice. She took a cautious step closer, examining the red coil wrapped around the steel base of the tube. The coil disappeared into the floor. “This is the power drain. The shield is keeping the Specter inside this tube.”

“It’s probably vacuum sealed,” Ben said. He had to force his eyes to blink. He felt like he was in some kind of strange dream. “That’s . . . that would theoretically make it impossible for the juvenile — the Specter — to move. The shield is a precautionary measure.”

“They’re obviously cautious. Idiots.”

“I’ve never seen one so small,” Ben marveled. “A juvenile suggests they either reproduce or . . . something else. Why have we never learned about this? Why were we never taught this?”

Cleo stepped away, flicking her wrist. Her VRacelet’s VR weapon appeared: two blue, translucent holographic blades. “I could kill it. Right now. And then I can shut down the battery drain.”

Ben fought the numbness that was spreading through his body. It was more intense than it had been before — were the nanobots strengthening his fight-or-flight system? Or were they malfunctioning? Regardless, the feeling gave him just enough courage to walk around the tube, examining the rest of the row of lab tables running beside the empty containment module. Each table had similar a similar tube, but the rest were empty.

With his mind no longer reeling, he could see this place for what it was now. Carnage. Confusion. A body of a scientist lay beside the far table. Stools were kicked aside. One computer screen had been smashed by something heavy. Papers containing chemical readouts were strewn around a single desk that was lined with little molded plastic animals. A coffee cup rested on the floor, its contents spilled between the thin grates.

The grates.

Ben looked down. He searched the darkness between the grates, willing his glasses to reveal what was underneath. But of course the glasses couldn’t, not unless he got closer. He took two more steps back, toe-heel, toe-heel, his ears ringing at the sound of his boots’ rubber soles rubbing on the steel grating. A strange, electrical energy pricked at his skin. It was an old, familiar feeling, and he remembered it well: just ten years old, laying in bed under the covers, sure that a terrifying ghost was waiting under his bed, ready to grab him.

“The shield for that big room is shut off,” Cleo whispered. “Something bad was in there, though. Wasn’t it?”

Ben nodded, his eyes still searching the steel grates. His hand found his VR pistol and he drew it, quickly double-checking the battery: three-quarters charge.

Something crashed to the floor. Something made of glass. It shattered, and the pieces fell through the floor grating, clinking and tinking.

Cleo’s hand found Ben’s shoulder. His body flinched violently and he felt his heart grow heavy, like a lump of lead. Breathe, he told himself; let the nanobots even things out. He turned to Cleo. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted just enough for her to suck in deep breaths through her mouth. She was regulating her breathing — good, he thought. They had to think clearly. Something else was in this room. What would Skye do?

“Kill it,” he told her.

Cleo walked past him, toward the tube holding the small Specter. She swung her fist and her VR blades slashed through the glass, slicing the little yellow Manteidos in half. It disintegrated, leaving the glass unbroken. “Good riddance,” she hissed.

“Can you . . . can you access the lab’s computer circuits?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense. But if you’re asking whether I can hack into their research computers, the answer is a definite yes. The only problem is they don’t have a Wi-Fi signal in here. It’s a security precaution.” She raised her VRacelet. Her twin blades shimmered as her hand passed through them to reach the touchscreen. She opened a program with a teddy bear icon. “We have to do it the old-fashioned way. I need to plug in to one of the consoles.”

Ben barely heard her voice. A million thoughts ran through his head. This place couldn’t be real. What was happening here defied everything he’d been taught. The Specters were too dangerous to study, even in controlled experiments. Small Phenocyte reactors were unreliable, which was why there were only large ones in each city. Everything about this was wrong. Too risky. Too dangerous.

“They lied to us,” he whispered. He could almost feel his raging amygdala taking over his entire brain. It was hard to think straight. It was hard to think about anything except all of the non-answers his teachers had given him about the mysteries of the Specters. “Everything we learned in primary school about the Specters . . . it was never the full truth.”

Cleo grabbed his arm, tugging. “So maybe we make them pay. Let’s get the data from here and see what we can find.”

“Yes. OK.” He followed her to the consoles on the other end of the lab. As they passed the large containment module, they both turned and looked inside. Where was the Specter that had been in there?

Something crashed somewhere on the other end of the lab. Ben turned, aiming his pistol. The little CPU in his glasses highlighted and identified the glass coffin-shaped objects sitting in neat rows along the opposite wall:

OCEANUS CONTAINMENT UNIT (MILITARY GRADE)

DESIGNED BY: TYRANIUS INDUSTRIES, CLAN PERSIA

PURPOSE: CLASSIFIED

“We’re all in on it,” Ben said. “All the clans. Everyone knows about this place.”

“Everyone with a Level One clearance,” Cleo clarified, reaching underneath the nearest glass console and pulling a thin blue cord from a small gray component box. She plugged the cord into her VRacelet, flicking her wrist to turn off the proton blades. “Not many people have a Level One clearance.”

“Skye’s dad has a Level One clearance.”

Cleo looked up into his eyes. Whether she intended it or not, she gave him a look that told him not to think about it. “This is gonna take a minute.”

Another crash, this time closer.

“Ok seriously, what the hell is that?” Cleo asked. She checked her VRacelet. “I’m picking up another energy spike.”

Ben searched the empty room, pointing his pistol. “It’s a Specter, somewhere underneath our feet. It must have a strong energy field to be disrupting material objects. We should leave. This entire place is one big mistake. We shouldn’t be here and they never should have been here, either.”

“We’re totally going to leave.” Cleo typed furiously on her touchscreen, bringing up a new suite of commands. “But if we want this information, you’re gonna have to pull your head out of your ass for a few minutes.”

The coarse language surprised Ben, enough to pull his mind back from the distracting memories of all his classes on the Specters. He searched the room again. There! Just in front of the large containment cell, in the floor: a soft, yellowish glow. A Specter lurking underneath the floor grating. A juvenile, just like the one Cleo had killed.

“I see it,” Ben said, aiming his pistol. “I can’t shoot through the floor. Isn’t there anything you can turn on?”

“There’s a dozen different things I could turn on,” Cleo said, “if we had enough power. This place has twenty-three different safeguards to make sure this exact problem never happens and all twenty-three shut off the moment the Phenocyte reactor was damaged and systems reset. The emergency battery isn’t powerful enough to start up any of these processes.”

The yellow glow moved closer to them, underneath the body of a gray-skinned man, his lab coat splayed loosely over his back like a white funeral shroud. His fingers danced — he was alive! — then went still as the glow moved past him.

The ring. The silver wedding ring on the man’s finger. It had reacted like a magnet to the Specter’s energy. Ben could see a little of it through the grating now. It was a juvenile; its energy waves were having a magnetic effect on the silver ring.

It moved closer. Quickly.

“Up,” Ben ordered.

“What —”

“Jump up on the table,” Ben said. “Hurry!”

Cleo jumped, her posterior just barely reaching the edge of the desk. Ben reached under her legs, lifting her up and feeling the muscles in his back tweak in the process. He turned back to the orange glow just in time to see it move underneath his feet. Its small, insect-like head phased through the grate, snapping silently at his toes. His shield system prevented its finger-sized mandibles from touching his boots but still the creature tried, nudging him backward. Ben lost his balance, nearly dropping his pistol. He reached out, grabbing for the edge of the nearby lab desk. His hand lost its grip, sliding across a stack of documents and sending them scattering to the floor.

Cleo screamed and drew her pistol, firing it at the Manteidos as it emerged from the floor. It was the size of a big dog, more vicious-looking and faster than a full-grown adult, jumping backward on its four legs before Cleo could even aim straight. Ben got up, weaving his way around the next row of lab tables. He pointed his pistol with one shaking hand and fired, hitting the creature in its belly. It turned, mandibles spread wide.

And screeched.

Ben fell to his knees, one hand protectively clutching his left ear. It hurt. The Specter moved closer to him, still screeching. It was protecting itself. It was . . .

No. Not a protective mechanism. It was a call.

He pointed his pistol and fired. Two more proton bullets cut through the Specter’s body. It broke apart, disintegrating. The screeching stopped but the ringing continued in Ben’s right ear. He shook his head, hurrying back to Cleo. “We need to go. Did you get everything?”

“Thirty percent,” she said. “Dude, your hand.”

He looked at his left hand. The palm of his glove was cut, and blood was streaming out. He moved his fingers, feeling a stinging sensation on his palm. “It’s just a scratch. Let’s move. We need to get out of here.”

She unplugged the wire, checking her VRacelet. “All this excitement is draining my obsolete VRacelet’s battery. I’m at ten percent power. Not enough for my shields. Ugh . . . I hate to admit this, but now I’m really, really scared.”

They hurried back to the lab entrance. Ben looked back over his shoulder. From somewhere deeper in the facility came another screech, then a crash of glass. “I’m afraid, too,” he said.

“Come on.” Cleo pulled him through the entrance the moment the doors whooshed open. She pushed a button on her VRacelet and the doors closed.

“Please wait,” came the female voice from the computer system. “Decontamination engaged.”

They held out their arms, watching the door. Waiting. Ben held out his left hand, looking at it. His palm was tingling. The bleeding had stopped, though. Minimal pain. Might need stitches.

“I’m gonna punch someone in the nose,” Cleo said. “If we don’t die, I swear I’m going to walk right up to my clan elder and punch her right in the nose.”

“Please lower your arms,” the female voice commanded.

“Let’s just make leaving this place a first priority,” Ben said. “Can you send anything to my glasses?”

“Totally.” Cleo tapped on her VRacelet. A blue holographic mesh appeared around her VRacelet, then disappeared. “I’m at emergency reserve power now. I’ll just send you the most high-level data I grabbed.”

A line of text appeared at the bottom of Ben’s glasses, scrolling slowly. The text brought a fresh chill down his spine. “This can’t be right.”

“What can’t? What? Helloooo? Talk to me, professor.”

The text scrolled again. Ben read it aloud: “Breach in research lab . . . Test subject H-seven . . . missing . . . Test subject H-three . . . euthanized . . . Test subject H-four . . . euthanized . . . Breach in Phenocyte reactor . . . Test subject H-five . . . euthanized . . . Breach in living quarters . . . Test subject H-nine . . . euthanized . . . unknown Specter activity in research lab . . . and then the log ends.”

“Decontamination complete,” said the female voice.

“What does all that mean?” Cleo asked.

There was a knocking on the lab door. Ben pointed his pistol. Another of the juvenile Specters, close enough to the door that its energy was reacting to the steel. Ben’s mind frantically ran through everything he’d learned about Specters, then threw it all out in favor of firsthand experience. The juvenile in the lab had screeched for a reason. Its energy field reacted with metal objects. A few shots from Ben’s pistol had been enough to destroy it. These were the only facts he could trust.

A glowing yellow Manteidos claw penetrated the door, reaching out. Ben pulled the trigger. The proton bullet singed the steel, leaving a black mark. Another claw appeared. Ben fired again, this time hitting it. The claw burst apart.

“They were performing tests on Specters,” Ben said, firing again and again. The other claw was still there, maybe stuck, maybe just taunting him. Maybe it wasn’t trying to kill him at all. Maybe it was just a child, curious or afraid. It didn’t matter. He fired three more shots, hitting the other claw and then continuing, just firing at the space where the creature might emerge, hoping it would reveal its horrible insect-like head.

“Hey. Hey!” Cleo lowered his arm. “Just talk to me. What. Does. It. Mean.”

“A Specter infiltrated the Phenocyte reactor.” Ben looked down, shaking his head. He was ashamed. He’d lost his temper and now his pistol battery was nearly drained. Firing at the door had been an illogical, childish move. “Another one infiltrated the labs. I don’t know how. Maybe if we can . . . uh . . . maybe if we can pinpoint the source of the infiltration we could be certain.”

“How about this?” Cleo brought up a video feed, filling the left lens of Ben’s glasses.

Ben watched it through. “No. No, that can’t be right. Play it again.”

The door behind them opened, revealing the long passage that led back to the loading bay. Beyond the passage, Ben could see two little flashlights moving back and forth. The lights swirled up and down, left and right.

The video feed in his left lens played again. Ben closed his right eye, searching for any irregularities. Some kind of rational explanation.

The lab.

Specter specimens in glass tubes.

Scientists at their stations, walking from specimen to specimen.

A Specter, trapped inside the large containment cell.

The lights, flickering.

Another Specter, pushing its way through the far wall, between two electrical coils. It was a Sebecus, so blood-red and glowing so brightly that it seemed to overpower the halogen lights overhead.

Sparks. People panicking. Equipment knocked over.

Death.

“That wall is solid rock,” Ben said. “We’re inside a mountain. The-the-the Specter Rubrics we learned in school taught us that Specters expend energy passing through objects. That’s why they can’t move underground.”

“Yeah, awesome,” Cleo said. “Except the same people who taught us that weren’t exactly sharing all the answers, were they?”

Ben laughed at the insanity of it all. So many secrets kept, and for how long? For what purpose? “Why didn’t they just tell us the truth, Cleo? There’s . . . there’s no logical purpose in keeping so many secrets from one another!”

Another metallic ping on the other side of the door. Ben turned, aiming his pistol, ready to fire the last few rounds of proton bullets right between the little Manteidos juvenile’s eyes. He would kill every single one of those little yellow critters even if they were the last of their kind. To Hades with studying them. To Hades with all of the adults and their secrets.

A pair of red, reptilian jaws appeared. Then one massive arm, claws extended out. Each claw disappeared into the grated floor, as if digging into soft dirt. Ben dropped his gun in terror.

Cleo pointed her pistol and fired, again and again and again. The proton bullets hit the steel door, hit the Specter’s long red snout and its arm. Its head emerged, turning so that one glowing bright red translucent eye could peer at both of them. It had a bubbling hole in its neck and two more on the crest of its scaly head, just above the right eye — as good a kill shot as an experienced Spartan could make.

And it was still alive. Still glowing bright red. Skye . . . she had to have fired those other shots.

“Run,” Ben croaked. “As fast as you can.”

Chapter 20: Skye Mitchell

Clan Sparta

The worst part was she couldn’t hear it. If it was a lion or a tiger or some other animal she had to read about in her awful secondary school zoology class, at least she would be able to hear the padding of its feet on the tile floor, chasing after her.

The least you could do is moan so I know you’re behind me.

The creature didn’t oblige, but Skye had an idea: ahead, just past the Common Room’s lounging couches, was the little bar area, and behind the bottles of liquor was the narrow mirror. That would be when she made her final decision.

Run or fight.

Fight. You have maybe two shots left. Either you kill it, or you die a good Spartan death and you can rest in peace knowing you’ll be honored for having done so much. Father will finally be proud.

She drew in a quick breath, hopping over the first couch, tripping over a dead body, bounding over the second couch and feeling the rubber soles of her boots absorb the shock.

Run. You already ran once. The Historian will recount how you ran from the Specter instead of standing your ground. That’s all anyone will remember. Not your heroics. Not the other Specters you killed. You’re disgraced already anyway. Might as well keep your miserable life. There will be other opportunities for glory.

She reached the mirror. A squeak of surprise escaped her mouth. The monstrous Specter was just a few meters behind her, moving so fluidly across one of the lounging couches that it seemed to capture her consciousness, freezing her muscles. By the gods, it was large. Its tail alone was as long as her. She could see the hole in its head where her proton bullet had hit — still, it glowed a bloody red. She could see through its ghostly body. She could see the door leading to the corridor. Closed. And no Seamus in sight.

Turn away.

She turned toward where the giant room curved like the spout of a tea kettle. Her glasses automatically identified each of the rooms based on her last visit: bedroom, bedroom, bedroom, hallway.

In other words: death, death, death, maybe-not-death.

No bone in her body wanted death. She didn’t want to die yet.

Her legs took her to the hallway. It was wide, decorated like the walls in the Commons room with stripes of clan colors. Somewhere, there was a Phenocyte reactor. There was no telling what was there, but the space would need to be big. A reactor surrounded by lasers. An observation deck lined with monitors. A control station full of plenty of Clan Persia gadgets.

And a Clan Sparta security station.

Skye forced her legs to carry her faster, slowing only a fraction for the hallway door to slide open. The overhead lights automatically turned on, tripped by motion sensors. Skye tried to keep pace with the lights, ignoring the pain in her gluteal muscles. Her Ecosuit absorbed her sweat. Her glasses bounced on the bridge of her nose.

Faster faster faster faster faster . . .

All along the wall were pictures. Real, material pictures that someone had printed and then framed and hung along the sterile gray walls. Big pictures of scientists, watching a Specter enclosed in some kind of device. Big pictures of Persian techies standing in front of a holographic DNA sequence, their faces glowing blue. Big pictures of Spartan soldiers scowling for the camera, rifles cradled lazily in their arms while the monitors behind them showed the inside of the Phenocyte reactor.

The weirdness of it all was almost enough to make her slow down.

But then she was at the end of the hall, and the door was sliding open, and as she stepped inside she cocked her head just enough to glance over her shoulder. The Specter was still just meters away but this door was thicker, and as it shut the Specter’s massive crocodile jaws slipped through with greater effort, followed by the rest of the head and then the thick, humanoid arms, phasing through the thick steel more slowly than it had phased through the thin door that led to the Commons.

Still it was red. As if it had so much stored-up energy that it might pass through the mountain itself.

Skye pointed her rifle, firing twice at its head. The proton bullets ruptured its ghost-like form in two places: once in the neck and another above its right eye. The vibrant red glow dimmed to a burning orange, and the creature opened its long mouth, releasing a ribcage-vibrating moan. Skye pulled the trigger again; the red light on the side of the rifle flashed.

The Specter pulled its torso through, turning its head and centering one eye right on Skye. Daring her to fire again.

Stupid girl. You knew you only had two shots left!

She was wasting time. She turned, taking in the facility as quickly as she could. It was shaped like a horseshoe, wide, the floor covered with black rubber floor tiles. The outer walls were lined with tall computer panels full of blinking red lights. On the inside of the walkway were rows of computer consoles, each one dipping down into a little ditch and complemented with a comfortable-looking chair, the kind useful for sitting in an entire shift. On each of the console touchscreens were warnings written in bold, red letters:

UNIDENTIFIED OBJECT IN REACTOR

LASER A114 OUT OF ALIGNMENT

LASER A249 OUT OF ALIGNMENT

AUTOMATIC COOLDOWN ACTIVATED

In the center of the large room was the reactor, walled off in a circular shape by thick steel lined with spools of wire and coiled metal conduits that ran underneath the console stations. A veritable spider’s web of golden tubes ran along the ceiling, all leading to the reactor core. A ramp led to the door leading into the reactor. The door was closed.

But where’s the security station?

She still hadn’t stopped moving, her feet following the curved aisle to the other side of the reactor. It wasn’t a horseshoe at all . . . it was a circle! And there, just ahead, on the opposite end of the large reactor: the Spartan security station built into the wall between two massive server stations, its glass window cracked and the light inside flickering violently.

Skye looked over her shoulder. The Specter was nowhere in sight.

She stopped at the opposite end of the reactor, looking both ways down either aisle. She sucked in a few deep breaths to stave off the ache in her ribs. Where are you? She stomped her foot on the floor a few times. It felt solid enough. Specters expended lots of energy passing through solid materials. This one was already wounded, no longer glowing red. It couldn’t possibly be moving underground. It just couldn’t have that much energy left.

So where are you, then?

Cautiously, Skye walked toward the security station. One of the nearby computer consoles was emitting a low, muted beeping noise. The ceiling lights running between the golden laser tubes were dim; all of the red warning lights cast a bloody glow over the floor. Skye glanced over her shoulder, searching.

Nothing.

Silence.

She drew in a deep breath. She could smell the eerie, sour scent of a dead body. It was further ahead, just past the security station. A Spartan body that had fallen over one of the console chairs. A woman with red hair just like Skye. She was looking over Skye’s shoulder, eyes wide and shriveled; Skye couldn’t help but turn again, sure the gray-skinned corpse was staring at something.

Nothing.

Silence.

Another Spartan body was still in the security station, draped over the security console, one wrinkled gray hand still clutching the manual alert system. It wasn’t quite pulled down — the manual alert system hadn’t been activated.

Weak fools. Posing for photographs, eschewing protocol. And look at you now. Your names will die with you.

Skye grabbed the man’s VR rifle, unlatching the battery and swapping out her own. She rebooted the rifle. The battery indicator blinked green to indicate a fresh proton supply. She turned, aiming her rifle out toward the aisle.

Nothing. Blinking red lights. Heart beating in her ears.

She looked first right, then left. Her breath sounded so loud in her ears that she held it, stepping around the female Spartan’s body.

It’s here. Somewhere.

She took two steps, turned and checked the direction she’d come. It was so quiet that she could hear the gentle hum of each computer console’s cooling fans. She wished the damn thing would moan. In primary classes, the instructors always had to remind the kids that Specters weren’t ghosts. They are enemies, the instructors would say, and they have weaknesses that can be exploited. They can be destroyed with proton bullets. It takes energy for them to pass through solid objects. They see, and more importantly they feel. We know this because of Clan Athens’ sanctioned studies. Many Spartans died to learn just this information. Remember them. Remember the fallen.

Her conscience got the best of her. She went back into the cramped security station, grabbing the dead Spartan man’s identification tag. She did the same thing with the woman, trying not to look at her face, worried that the resemblance would be too close. Someone from Skye’s lineage, perhaps. Parents from the Morrison and Holt families. Skylar Morrison, a famous jet pilot. Baylor Holt, the first to infiltrate a Clan Athens base during the final clan war.

And what had their genes gotten these two? Quick, inglorious deaths.

Skye took three steps, then turned, checking her six. Nothing. She did it again, holding her breath until her lungs ached. She exhaled. She was close to the entrance of the reactor room now and still no sign of Specter. Another body was hanging over a seat at one of the console stations to Skye’s right, wearing an Ecosuit. A man with a shaved head and dark, gray skin that clung to his skull like a shriveled grape. Another Spartan. On the right shoulder plate of his Ecosuit was a single red V — a captain.

He’s from the rescue party.

Skye checked both directions again, then reached down and flipped the body. His frightened expression had been frozen as the Specter passed through him. Wide eyes, a mouth hung open mid-scream. It was unbecoming of a Spartan. A bad death.

Why did he come to the reactor room?

There had been other bodies outside, near the rescue Tumbler. Skye hadn’t made a point of counting them, but perhaps only a few had even made it into the facility . . .

Doesn’t matter. Get out of here. Find that cowardly Historian and bug out at first daylight.

She grabbed his identification tag, took another five steps, then turned back. Still nothing. Still empty.

Still so silent that she could hear her heart beating in her ears over the gentle hum of the console fans. Something was missing on her lenses. Stupid Persians and their buggy tech.

“Chi, shield status,” she said. Her eardrums seemed to flinch at the sound of her voice. A yellow bar reappeared on the edge of her right lens. The battery was at thirty-five percent. If that big Specter’s crocodile jaws caught her, the shield wouldn’t last long. And then those glowing ethereal teeth could pass through Skye’s body, sapping her energy until she was nothing but a lifeless husk just like the captain.

Clear your thoughts. Check your six.

She stopped and turned, aiming the VR rifle back the way she came.

Still nothing.

She moved closer toward the door leading back to the Commons. It slid open when she got near, startling her. The lights in the hall remained off but there was clearly no Specter there, either.

That leaves only the reactor compartment.

She turned around, aiming at the aisles curving around the large reactor. Both directions were empty. Ahead of her was the ramp leading into the reactor room, shut off by the tall steel door. Skye double-checked the hallway, then walked down the ramp, between two of the computer console stations. The hallway door slid shut again, causing her to start.

Check your corners.

She aimed the VR rifle right, then left, peering around the bend in each direction. Still empty. She turned back to the computer console to her left. With one hand, she reached down, tapping on the touchscreen a few times until the red reactor warning disappeared, replaced with more than a dozen program icons. She pressed one at random, hoping maybe luck would be on her side, but the program that opened was a complicated array of numbers and code.

Cleo would know all this. That’s why the Coterie is so useful. I could be watching her back while she does this.

But Cleo wasn’t here. And if the Specter was inside the reactor room, wounded, it had probably expended most of its remaining energy just penetrating the closed door. This would be Skye’s best chance to waste it.

So what do you do whenever your computer at home doesn’t cooperate?

She tapped the voice control button at the bottom of the screen. A little sound wave appeared. “Find door controls,” she said in a low voice.

The computer processed the command. Fifteen different links appeared on the screen, each one featuring a title and a small description of the process. One seemed like a pretty perfect match: REACTOR DOOR – Unlock.

“Thank you for keeping it simple,” she murmured.

The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Skye turned, pointing her rifle first at the door and then around both corners, sure there would be a Specter silently skulking toward her.

Still clear. Still silent.

She took a deep breath and turned back to the console, pressing the link to the door control. It brought up a more complicated screen filled with boxes of various warnings. But the icon to open the door was clear enough. She pressed it. A command prompt appeared, asking if she was sure. She pressed YES.

A red light above the reactor door began blinking. A new warning appeared on the screen:

LASERS MISALIGNED. SYSTEM MALFUNCTION.

FUSION PROCESS CANNOT RESTART.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Skye whispered. She stepped onto the ramp, checking her six again and then checking both aisles.

Still empty. The Specter had to be inside the reactor.

Her fingers felt tense, clutching the VR Rifle. Her glasses were misreading the dead body of the Spartan captain, giving her a strange blinking error message. She ignored it and turned back to the tall reactor door as it slowly slid open.

Dark orange steam slid out like water rushing through a dam. Skye took another step back, holding in a fresh breath. An error message appeared on the console to her right:

UNIDENTIFIED OBJECT IN REACTOR.

The steam rolled across the floor, bouncing off the computer consoles lining the exterior of the reactor, settling on the console seats like ghosts.

There it was. The Specter, deep inside the reactor, surrounded by what looked like thousands of lasers all aimed right at the center. Through the creature’s translucent body Skye could see the far end of the reactor where a small group of laser guns looked awkwardly bent, aimed in different directions instead of toward the center.

Skye checked her six again, then the corners. Her heart beat in her ears. She slowly knelt down, lining up the Sebecus in her rifle sight. Through her glasses, a red target appeared on the Specter’s torso, right below the diamond-shaped spikes along its spine.

Its color is orange now. It’s not invincible.

It was huge, standing on its hind legs like some hunched-over humanoid. It had half a dozen holes in its body and face where Skye’s proton bullets had hit it. The holes didn’t heal, it seemed. The ghost lowered its long snout, searching the ground like an animal.

Skye held her breath.

Glory.

The creature reached out one hand, grabbing for something sitting on the ground. Skye could have sworn the thing’s scaly face contorted into a look of recognition. A small orb of Phenocyte? Why would it . . .

The moment the Specter’s humanoid hand touched it, its color changed. The orange glow darkened, changing to the dull red that could sometimes be found in the horizon clouds at sunset. Skye’s finger hesitated. What was happening?

A sound penetrated the silence. Skye’s head snapped left, searching for the source. But the sound was coming through the wall. Not a human scream, but some kind of animal-like screech with a high pitch.

Movement!

Skye turned back to the Specter, aiming her rifle. A sudden fear took hold. The creature’s head was turned in the direction of the screech. Its eyes blinked. The muscles over the eyes pulled down, as if it was trying to frown.

It recognizes the sound.

The Specter leapt toward the lasers, penetrating the reactor wall and landing silently on the aisle to Skye’s left. She tracked it with her rifle and fired three quick shots, hitting it in the torso and tail and sending globules of yellow ash floating onto the rubber floor.

And then the red glow was gone.

Skye stood cautiously, sure her eyes — and the glasses — were playing tricks on her. The Specter had phased through the far wall as if it had been only millimeters thick. As if it wasn’t made of steel and — beyond that — solid rock. Her instructors’ words bounced around inside her head.

Specters can pass through solid objects, but it requires energy . . .

. . . It requires time . . .

. . . They’re most vulnerable after they’ve expended energy . . .

Apparently, this one isn’t playing by the rules. And if it’s heading toward the labs, then that means Cleo and Ben are in trouble.

She hurried to the door leading to the hallway. It slid open. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up again. She turned back toward the reactor, raising her rifle, searching. Her glasses outlined the dead Spartan, again circling it with a red targeting reticule. This time, Skye saw it: a dull, yellowish glow.

She stepped closer.

The glow intensified.

Skye checked her blind spot, then knelt down, aiming at the body. Her heart thumped in her ears. Something was wrong here. Something was terribly wrong.

Like some bizarre after-image, a glowing yellow ghost of the Spartan stood up. The body remained on the floor but above it, like a bright hologram, was an image of the man. His hands clenched into fists. He turned, looking directly at Skye.

No. This is impossible.

She could make out the outline of his Ecosuit. She could see through his ethereal form. He took a step toward her, his boot silently touching the ground.

A Specter. He’s a Specter!

A sudden anger overwhelmed Skye. No one had ever said this was possible. How could no one know? How could no one know? Someone had to know. Intelligence had been withheld. And now here was the ghost of a Spartan, staring at her with a look of pure hatred. All this time, she’d been told that death in battle offered the greatest glory.

Was this glorious?

She aimed the rifle at his chest. He took another step closer. His foot dipped into the floor, disappearing below. He faltered, looking down at the floor in surprise.

Skye pulled the trigger.

Chapter 21: Gabriel Martinez

Parliament

Wei was still crying. Although the sobs had stopped, she couldn’t turn off the waterworks fully. She’d dripped snot onto Gabriel’s Ecosuit, which he thought was kind of funny, actually: the suit was designed to protect its user from the elements but snot and tears seemed to stain the spidersilk fiber like salsa on cotton.

Reza and Tahlia were dutifully watching the loading bay shutters, kind of sort of playing with their flashlights, kind of sort of pointing their guns, although he hardly expected them to do much if another Specter did arrive. They would die. They would use their pistols and fire wildly and the Specters would probably laugh at the insanity of it all and then destroy the kids’ shields one by one while the kids screamed, writhing on the ground, the jaws of the Specters closing in on their heads.

“Ouch! Stop!” Wei said.

He shook his head and looked down at her. His hand was in her soft black hair, clenched into a fist. He loosened it. Hairs stuck to his sweaty palm. “I’m sorry, little bug.”

“You hurt my head.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just . . .” He stopped. Better not to say it aloud. And why was he thinking so negatively, anyway? They’d been sitting here for over an hour and nothing had appeared. No Specters. Just one big, silent loading bay and a handful of pretty scared kids. Plus Gabriel.

Plus Cassidy. The Spartan boy had been standing the entire time, alternating between staring at the steel shutters and staring at the two tunnels at the end of the loading bay. He kept both pistols drawn, but not pointed, maybe because his scrawny arms couldn’t handle the weight of the things for any given amount of time. He wasn’t like his sister. He looked nervous, and every once in a while he reached up with one hand and bit his knuckle through the glove, as if it itched or something.

But when those three Specters had tried to come through, Cassidy had stayed by Wei. He’d protected her and as frightened as he must have been, his Spartan training had kicked in. Gabriel’s mother always told him to look for a person’s hidden qualities. Maybe the boy was some wunderkind with VR pistols. Maybe they weren’t doomed here at all. Maybe it wasn’t his fault they were here. Maybe, just maybe, the sun would rise and everyone would be OK.

Lots of maybes.

Reza sat down beside Wei. He put a hand on her shoulder. It was a touching gesture coming from the whiny Persian, although Wei probably couldn’t even feel it through her armor. The Ecosuits looked so stupid on the kids. They looked like ridiculous little child soldiers, the kind the Historians would talk about when mentioning the Darkest Age of humanity. Stories about war-torn countries fighting over oil resources and throwing children out into the meat grinder armed with guns that fired actual bullets. Kids who died by the hundreds for warlords who just wanted to own an oil field.

Maybe now wasn’t so different.

“Here,” Reza said, offering Wei a little silver stick. He slid his pudgy thumb along the switch on the side and light emitted from the tip. “Cool, huh?”

Wei took the flashlight, pointing the beam at the floor, illuminating an old bootprint.

“Is it cool being a free citizen?” Reza asked Wei. “It seems kind of cool.”

“It’s nice,” Gabriel said, hoping the boy might catch on to the different word. Cool was the kind of slang that the Ministry of Language tried to ban in schools. Cool mucked up the language. Language was important. A single language kept humanity close. Unity.

Where Reza and his older sister was learning all these strange, forgotten words was the real mystery . . .

“I bet it’s pretty cool,” Reza said, not picking up on Gabriel’s hint. The boy certainly lived in his own head. “I like making role-playing games, you know.”

Wei sniffled, looking at him. “With wizards and stuff?”

Reza nodded excitedly. “Oh yeah. Lots of wizards. They’ve got fireballs and healing, and then some other ones can raise the dead. They’re pretty cool. I made this animation where this wizard is shooting a fireball? And if you’re playing as a knight and you hit the fireball with your sword? You can cause the fireball to explode! My friend Nguyen drew the explosion himself. It’s better than a lot of games out there.”

“That’s so nice,” Wei said. She wiped her nose on her arm, leaving a greasy streak on the spidersilk. “What do you have to do in your game?”

“I think you should find the Dark Wizard, who’s this totally big guy who has all these spell books and he’s using them for evil? And then maybe you take the spell books and you can run around casting spells and making the world a better place? I don’t know yet, though.”

“I think that would be really nice,” Wei said. “It sounds fun.”

Reza beamed.

“I agree,” Gabriel told him with a nod. “People would really like that kind of game. People like to escape into fantasy worlds.”

“Yeah.” He tapped the barrel of his pistol on the concrete floor, which didn’t seem like a good idea to Gabriel. “But I’m gonna be making war games for Clan Sparta. That’s what they want, I guess.”

“Well, you don’t have to do that,” Gabriel said. Reza gave him a weird look, as if Gabriel had just made an insane statement. “You can do whatever you want when you turn eighteen. That’s a basic freedom everyone gets.”

Reza shrugged. “There’s a Spartan company that my teachers want me to work for.”

“But they can’t force you,” Gabriel said. “They can’t force you to do anything. If you want to move to the city and design your own videogames, you can do that. You get a Basic Income like everyone else and you get personal freedom like everyone else.”

“My parents owe money,” Reza said in a quiet voice. “Because of the cost of creating me. You know.” He made a wiggly motion with one hand. Gabriel’s mind tried to associate the action with something, anything, but he drew a blank. A sperm, maybe? A thirteen-year-old’s rendition of a sperm, at least.

“OK just stop that,” he said, waving the motion away. “I get it. I’m sorry. I thought you were freeborn.”

“I am.” He shrugged, looking away. “I just had some stuff wrong with me, so my parents had to pay for gene therapy. Legal gene therapy, don’t worry.”

Gabriel felt a profound empathy for the boy. Why would his parents have mentioned any of this to him? More importantly, why hadn’t his parents applied for hardship funding to help offset the costs of whatever gene therapy was required? “My point is you can still do something else. That’s what makes our society so great: opportunity and freedom. You’ll get a Basic Income to live on and you can design your video games for as long as you want.”

Reza looked over his shoulder at Cassidy. The Spartan boy shook his head. “Being in a clan is different.”

“I’m not saying there wouldn’t be sacrifices,” Gabriel said, annoyed. What were these kids having trouble understanding, exactly? The world wasn’t perfect, but at least their society tried. It wasn’t like past societies that denigrated their poor and demonized people with different colored skin. To listen to a Historian tell it, humans had come so far. “I mean, your parents would forgive you . . .”

“Mine wouldn’t,” Cassidy said. He turned back to the tunnels. “My father would never forgive me if I quit my military training.”

Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at the Athenian girl, Tahlia. She was standing next to Cassidy, watching with a sort of transfixed curiosity, like they were all wild animals in need of observation. She had her flashlight out, too, keeping it on the entrance to the little office. The beam of light reflected off the glass window.

“You feel like adding your two cents about why I’m wrong, too?” Gabriel asked.

“No,” she said. “Humans look to traditions to strengthen bonds. Family members exert control over one another.”

“You sound like the Historian, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” she said. “I’m a Young Adult. And I’ve taken a lot of Anthropology classes, so there.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Point taken.” He sighed. “If I had it my way, I’d abolish the clans altogether. We don’t need them. And we don’t need to breed certain family lines, either.”

“So everyone would have babies the old-fashioned way?” Reza asked. He gave Wei a goofy-looking face, bulging his eye out and wrinkling his nose. Wei giggled.

“Genetics and environment play different roles,” Tahlia said. She had a confident, almost spacey voice. She was thinking a lot of different things while she spoke, Gabriel guessed. “We’re scared the Specters are too tough so we use in-vitro fertilization to breed the best genetic lines. Deep down, we don’t think we can beat them unless we cheat.”

Smart girl. Smart, smart girl. “Are you sure you’re only thirteen?” he asked with what he hoped was a friendly smile.

She didn’t return the gesture. “In ancient times, thirteen-year-olds led armies and ran countries. Maybe we’re just reverting back to normal.”

“No,” Gabriel said flatly. “You just . . . you’re all very smart. But you deserve the freedom to be young. When I was your age, I spent most of my time playing. I drew animals in the zoo. I read books and played hide-and-seek in the park. It’s good to be young. There’s something valuable about that. And there’s something valuable about being free to choose your own destiny.”

Cassidy scoffed. “Maybe you don’t have a choice either.”

Gabriel blinked a few times. Of course he had a choice. He didn’t have to follow in his mother’s footsteps. “I want to be a Parliamentarian.”

“I don’t believe you,” Tahlia said.

“I don’t care if you do.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” He felt confident, then realized he’d argued his way to a stalemate with a child.

“Gabe, it’s kinda scary being inside a mountain,” Wei said.

Gabriel held her shoulder. “The great poet Tu Fu would disagree. For all this, what is the mountain god like? . . . An unending green of lands north and south: from ethereal beauty Creation distills . . . there, yin and yang split dusk and dawn.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Reza turned to Tahlia and Wei, smiling devilishly. “Beans, beans, the musical fruit, the more you eat the more you toot!”

They all started laughing. Gabriel frowned, suppressing a comment about the boy’s immaturity. You just told them they needed to be kids, he reminded himself.

When they were finished with their case of the giggles, Wei shined her flashlight around the loading bay, letting the light linger on the large steel containers.

“We should pop one open,” Reza offered.

“We shouldn’t,” Gabriel said. “It’s none of our business.”

“What if people are hiding in there?” Wei asked.

“Then they’re idiots.”

“Wei is right,” Tahlia said. She shined her flashlight on the containers, too. The two beams looked like a pair of bright eyes staring back at the kids. “Specters don’t have the intelligence for critical thought. That’s the perfect place to hide from them.”

Gabriel looked at Cassidy, who just shrugged and gnawed on his knuckle.

“How about we vote?” Gabriel asked.

“Like, a real vote?” Reza asked. He sat up, surprisingly excited by the prospect.

“Why not?” Gabriel turned to Tahlia. “You’re all Young Adults, after all. Who’s in favor of checking one of the shipping containers?”

Tahlia, Reza, and Wei raised their hands.

“Opposed?” Gabriel raised his hand. Cassidy just shrugged. “Gotta vote one way or another, clansman.”

“Skye would get mad,” he said, “if she knew we were breaking protocol.”

Gabriel smiled. The thought of annoying Skye almost made him change his vote. It was petty, yes, but the girl just rubbed him the wrong way. “I’m outvoted regardless. All right, so what’s the safest way to do this, Spartan?”

Cassidy sighed a true teenager’s sigh. He looked down toward the twin corridors, then back to the steel shutters. He lowered both pistols, walking hesitantly to the stacks of shipping containers. There were half a dozen, total, and only one wasn’t double-stacked. Cassidy pointed to that one. “There’s probably a hatch on top.”

“Yeah!” Reza said, hopping up. “And I can override the e-lock! This is great!” He held out a hand for Wei, who grabbed it and let him pull her to her feet. Gabriel followed the two over to the shipping container, aware that Tahlia had fallen in line beside him, the light from her flashlight shining on the ground in front of his feet.

“You know, you exhibit some strong alpha male tendencies from time to time,” she pointed out.

“Thanks.”

“That’s not a compliment. Alpha males in human society are often a risk.” She looked up at him. “But sometimes, you don’t exhibit those tendencies. And that’s a compliment.”

Gabriel, surprised, decided it would be best to keep his mouth shut.

They stood in front of the container, waiting while Reza fiddled with a little wristwatch device on his left wrist. It wasn’t very fancy-looking. Like a training VRacelet or something. The poor kid was already losing points with his wide stomach — having up-to-date gadgets was popular even among the free citizens. For a Persian to be missing out on the latest tech? That was unheard of.

Again, what were his parents thinking?

“Someone should go up,” Tahlia said. “Reza, unfortunately, is too overweight. And Cassidy might accidentally shoot someone if they’re hiding inside. Also, he needs to be down here in case there’s danger.”

Gabriel shook his head. “You don’t have an off switch, do you?”

Tahlia looked up at him and frowned.

“I’ll go,” Wei said. “I have a flashlight.”

“What? No. Absolutely not. Having a flashlight doesn’t qualify you to go traipsing around up there.”

“Gabe!” she whined, eyes wide, fists clenched. He knew that look well enough: she was dead-set and nothing would stop her. Here was her opportunity to be a part of her future Coterie. A chance to participate actively with the clan members — who was Gabriel to deny her that? He’d not had that opportunity with Skye and Cleo and Ben when he was thirteen; back then, his mother hadn’t been premier. Talk of joining a Coterie hadn’t even come up. Now, he felt like he’d missed something important.

The story about the New Adults getting lost, about Skye saving the day . . . Gabriel couldn’t participate in that memory. Wei could participate in this memory. It could have meaning five years from now when she and Cassidy and Tahlia and Reza went out for their final Proving.

He sighed, pretending to debate it. “Fine.” He attached his pistol to his belt, then kneeled and folded his hands. “Insert foot, little bug.”

“Gaaaabe,” she groaned, angry at the use of her nickname. He just grinned. She stepped onto his folded hands, grabbing two of the folds of metal along the exterior of the container to steady herself. He lifted her up. She grabbed the edge and pulled herself onto the top of the container, the tip of her little boot bouncing noisily off the steel.

“Wei, draw your gun,” Gabriel said. A chill ran down his spine. She looked so exposed and lonely up there, just out of his reach. The pessimist inside his head told him there were bodies inside these containers, all right, only they weren’t bodies of living human beings. There was no one alive here — that was why they hadn’t heard from Skye or Ben or Cleo or Seamus.

And whatever was in those containers was trouble.

“Wei,” he said, licking his lips. He backed up so he could still see her as she moved toward the center of the container. “Draw your VR pistol.”

“I have it,” Cassidy reminded him.

Gabriel drew his pistol. He jumped, setting it on the top of the container. “Grab it,” he told Wei.

She walked back and grabbed the pistol, giving him that same annoyed look. As if he was seriously trying to embarrass her. “Hey! I just want you safe.”

“There’s something going on,” Cassidy said. He was looking toward the other end of the loading bay. Down the corridor that led into the research labs were two people. Gabriel’s glasses identified Ben and Cleo.

“They’re running,” Tahlia said nervously.

“I’m at the hatch,” Wei announced. Gabriel turned back to the container, stepping back so he could see her. She’d knelt down and was using her fingers to pull on something metallic. “It’s just a latch!” she called out.

Reza looked up at Gabriel and smiled, holding up his watch. “That’s good, because this is just a regular old watch. Someday, though, my sis is gonna crack it open and give it an upgrade so I can add a couple programs. I always tell her she’s a level-five wizard because some of her programs work like magic. She can open doors and drive cars and make credit machines spit out credit chips.” He wrinkled his nose. “Just forget about that last part.”

“I got it!” Wei said. There was a metallic sliding sound. Gabriel stood on his tip-toes, trying to see, but he could only make out the top of Wei’s head. “I’ve got the metal shutter thingy open, Gabe! Hello! Is anyone in there?”

“Wei!” Gabriel shouted. He hurried to the container and jumped, grabbing the top and trying to pull himself up. His boots slid along the side, unable to give him enough traction. He landed back on the ground. “Wei, just step back until we know it’s safe!”

“Something’s wrong,” Cassidy said.

Gabriel turned back toward the tunnels. There was a dark reddish glow now at the far end, backlighting two running figures. A Sebecus Specter phased its way through the far door. Ben and Cleo were running fast, close to halfway down the long tunnel where a small lift sat beside the wall. Ben’s medical kit bounced against his hip, its strap nearly catching on the handle of the lift. As she passed it, Cleo grabbed the handle of the lift and pulled it behind her so it rolled in the center of the tunnel, as if that might stop their ghostly pursuer.

The Sebecus Specter let out a low moan and took off after them on all fours, its spiked tail swinging wildly from left to right.

Gabriel’s body went numb. Tears coated his eyes. He turned back to the container. “Wei! Wei, get down from there right now. Wei!”

He took another step back so he could see her. She was kneeling beside the top hatch, shining her flashlight down inside the container. Her eyes were wide. The flashlight shook in her hand.

“Wei!” Gabriel shouted frantically.

“Wei, come on!” Reza shouted.

“Wei!” Tahlia joined in, stomping her foot on the ground. Gabriel clapped his hands together.

“Wei!” he screamed. “Wei! Little bug, please come down!” He turned back to the tunnel. Ben and Cleo were less than a hundred meters away now, their boots pounding on the concrete floor. Ben had taken the lead, leaving Cleo a good twenty meters behind him. Behind Cleo, the Sebecus Specter was gaining ground, moving silently, almost floating as its long tail swung back and forth, painting the corridor shades of bright red. It was big, so big that it couldn’t even move around the lift — it simply surged through it, expending so little energy that its reddish glow didn’t diminish at all. “Everyone point your weapons!”

“I can’t shoot!” Tahlia said. “Ben! Get out of the way!”

They were at the end of the tunnel, sprinting down the empty loading bay. Cleo faltered, as if her leg had suddenly given up; she recovered and turned away from Ben, limping in the opposite direction. Something caught Gabriel’s eye to the right: Skye! Skye and the Historian, stopping at the end of the other corridor just as Ben ran past them, trailed by the massive Specter.

The Historian fumbled with his pistol. Skye aimed her rifle.

“Ben!” Tahlia shouted. Her gun was shaking in her hand. Gabriel reached out to grab it but before he could, Tahlia pulled the trigger. A blue proton bullet burst from the barrel. Gabriel spun around; the bullet went wide of both the Ben and the Specter. The Specter looked wounded — there were chunks ectoplasm missing from its body and head and lower jaw. But it was gaining on Ben, ignoring Cleo completely.

Only twenty meters away now.

A burst of fire from Skye’s VR rifle. Proton bullets tore through the back of the Specter, piercing its scaly hide and diamond-shaped spikes.

“Ben, just fall!” Tahlia shouted.

“What?” Ben huffed.

“Fall!” they all shouted at once.

Ben obliged, sliding face-first on the floor. His glasses went skidding across the concrete. Tahlia fired her pistol. Reza fired his. Cassidy fired both of his.

And from behind, Skye and the Historian matched the firepower. Blue proton bullets cut through the air like fireworks, tearing the Specter to pieces from two directions. Its color faded to yellow. It let out one long moan that echoed down the tunnels, and then its form completely broke down. The yellow embers settled on Ben’s body, disappearing as their energy faded.

Gabriel’s legs shook so much that he couldn’t stop himself from falling to his knees. He watched Ben get up and gently touch his red cheek. The skin had rubbed against the concrete and looked painfully raw. But the color seemed to return — he was OK. Everyone was OK.

They’d worked together. And won.

A silence hung in the air. Gabriel turned to Skye and the Historian. Their eyes were wide, surprised. Surprised that the rest of the Coterie had contributed so much? Surprised that the kids were capable of heroics, too? Or . . . surprised at something else?

Gabriel turned to find Wei. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

There, perched atop the shipping container no more than a meter away from Wei: A Manteidos Specter, its four wings spread angelically. Its bright orange glow illuminated Wei’s pale skin. Its mandibles quivered.

“Wei!” Gabriel screamed.

Wei’s frightened gaze finally broke from whatever was inside the container. She looked at the Specter, then turned to her brother with a look of horror on her face. Gabriel felt his heart crack in two. The kids turned and, without a moment’s hesitation, fired their pistols. Blue proton bullets flew past the Specter. One hit its wing, puncturing a hole. Another clipped one of its arms. It rose up over Wei and raised one knife-like forearm.

Gabriel watched in horror, feeling his entire body grow numb. The force of the Specter’s knife-like appendage hitting Wei’s shield knocked her back. More bullets hit the creature, sending fragments of glowing orange globules flying in every direction, lighting up the corner of the loading bay. The creature’s claw was putting stress on Wei’s shield — from where he was standing, Gabriel could see just a hint of his sister’s wide eyes, her terrified expression as she tried to crawl to the edge of the shipping container. He couldn’t move. His muscles were frozen. His eyes couldn’t — wouldn’t — turn away.

And then her shield failed. The creature’s claw passed through Wei’s body.

Gabriel screamed.

Chapter 22: Skye Mitchell

Clan Sparta

“Cassidy!” Skye shouted. Her brother turned; she nodded her head upward, hoping this would be one of those moments where siblings shared a single brain. Cassidy understood well enough, kneeling on all fours and flattening his back.

Skye reached him one short breath later, stepping on his back and pushing off. She felt him fall away from under her but she had enough momentum to reach the top edge of the container. Her Ecosuit absorbed most of the blow; still, she still felt the air escape her lungs. She ignored the uneasy feeling and swung her leg, pulling herself onto the container, grabbing her rifle from its magnetic holster on her back, ready to take aim but then she saw the creature’s claw inside Wei’s chest, its ghost-like appendage sucking the delicate nerve impulses from her body, its color growing brighter.

Skye momentarily froze.

A blue proton bullet ripped through the creature’s appendage. Cassy. He was focusing his fire on its claw. The Manteidos roared silently, its mandibles opening up as it pulled back, leaving its claw stuck inside Wei. The yellow claw faded, disappearing.

And Skye had her opening.

She ran forward, jumping over Wei, her eyes nervously glancing at the shield meter on the right lens of her glasses. 20%. There was no turning around now. It’s glory either way, girl.

She slammed into the Specter. Her shield protected her body, pushing against the creature and knocking it off the edge of the container. Her shield status turned red, blinking furiously; she ignored it, aiming her rifle at the Specter as it floated to the ground below. Three of its wings unfolded. Its legs jittered.

Skye squeezed the trigger and held it, letting the force of each blast pull the barrel upward. Proton bullets cut diagonally across its body, slicing it clean in half.

And then it was gone. The last few proton bullets hit the concrete floor, leaving small circular burn marks.

Gabriel was still screaming his sister’s name. Skye turned back and hurried to the girl, mentally preparing herself for the sight of such a young death. Gray skin. A look of terror frozen on her little face.

But instead Wei’s face was calm, her eyes closed. Her skin’s color hadn’t drained. Skye ran a shaky finger across the girl’s cheek, distrusting her own eyes. The girl’s skin was smooth, pale as milk.

She’s still alive!

“Come on, kid,” she said, grabbing the girl’s arm. “Cassy, keep an eye on the entrance!”

Ben and Gabriel stood under the shipping container, perfect twins of duality. Tears streamed down Gabriel’s cheeks. Sweat lined his forehead. His hands were held up, shaking, his fingers twitching with an ache to touch his sister’s clammy skin. Ben stood stoic with both arms outstretched, his face fixed in a look of grim determination. Skye hung Wei over the edge, intentionally leaning Wei toward Ben so that the Athenian could cradle her head.

Ben would know what to do. Skye didn’t know why she knew it, but somehow she just knew. Ben could save Wei.

They laid her on the floor. “Give me some room,” Ben stated. It was a forceful tone, not one he’d used yet and it surprised Skye. She admired the tone — it was strong enough to convince Gabriel step back a meter and do his pacing out of Ben’s way.

Skye jumped down beside Cassy. She put a hand on his shoulder. “You did well.”

“I should have been watching our six,” he said.

“No. The Sebecus Specter was the direct threat. That thing . . . I shot it in the Phenocyte lab and then it went through the far wall. And then . . .” Images of the human Specter flooded her mind. A man in Specter form. A ghost.

They’re not ghosts.

She’d killed it with two proton bullets and it had broken apart just like any other Specter. Except this one had been human.

Tahlia knelt beside Wei, removing from her utility belt a shiny silver medical scissors, most likely never used before this moment. Tahlia unstrapped the front of Wei’s Ecosuit and cut away her white undershirt, then pressed two fingers to the girl’s soft neck. With her other hand, Tahlia took off her glasses, holding them over Wei’s mouth.

Air steamed the lenses.

“What are you doing?” Gabriel asked frantically. “What are you doing to her?”

Skye reached out before he could get closer, grabbing the collar of his suit.

“I’m going to check her internal organs,” Ben said calmly, punching a command into his medscanner device. “And then we’re going to get her inside the Tumbler so I can run a more thorough brain scan.”

“Is she dead?” Reza asked. He was trying to get closer, too, but his big sister had managed to limp her way over during the carnage and had an arm around her brother’s shoulder. She was thankfully quiet for once. Skye had no patience for anything but seriousness now. A life was on the line. Lives had been on the line ever since they investigated the supply depot, but now it seemed unfair. Of all the people who might die, Wei seemed the most unlikely. There was no justice in this — she’d avoided danger. She’d been protected every step of the way. She was the most fragile.

She’s weak. Death is inevitable.

Skye shook away the thought. Such a Spartan statement didn’t feel right here in this place, in this moment.

“Ben,” Tahlia said, panic creeping into her voice. “She’s going into cardiac arrest.”

“Wei!” Gabriel shouted. Skye held him back, twisting his arm. He cried out in pain; she sidled around him, putting herself between him and Wei.

“Just let them help her,” Skye said, looking into his dark eyes and holding his concentration. “Let. Them. Help. Her.”

His breathing came out so fast that for a moment, she thought he might pass out. His panic had escalated to a point of no return. He can’t calm himself down. If he gets past me, he’s going to push Ben aside.

“It’s my fault,” Gabriel said. “Wei, it’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”

He began to cry. Skye held back her disgust and used the opportunity to gently push him back a few more steps. She gave Cassy a look and he stepped up, putting himself between Gabriel and Skye.

“She has a neural abnormality,” Ben said. He ran his medscanner across Wei’s scalp, gently brushing aside her black hair. “I have a reading on her left hemisphere where there’s no oxygenated hemoglobin, as if it’s blocked.”

“What does that mean?” Gabriel whimpered.

“Oxygenated hemoglobin fuels cell activity,” Tahlia explained.

“There’s a dead zone,” Ben said, “and it might be causing the cardiac arrest.”

Skye stepped closer, pulling her VR rifle. Ben had removed two small wires from his medscanner. A diode was affixed at the end of each wire, and with a steady hand Ben placed one diode on the right side of Wei’s temple and the other diode under her right ear. A message appeared on the screen.

“I’m performing a neural fibrillation,” he said. “Tahls, hands off.”

Tahlia raised her hands, just like Athenian surgeons always did in the holo-movies. “Clear.”

“Clear,” Ben said, pushing a button on the medscanner.

Wei’s back arched as an electrical shock hit her body. Skye flinched at the sight of it, surprised to feel so much worry infecting her mind.

She’s not one of yours.

She’s part of my brother’s Coterie. And she’s just a child.

“Again,” Ben said.

“Clear,” Tahlia said.

“Clear.” He pressed the button again. Wei’s back arched again as her body reacted to the shock. Skye looked away, overcome with emotion. Gabriel’s hands were pressed against his head as he watched over Cassy’s shoulder. A tear had made its way down Reza’s fat cheek, hanging from his chin. Cleo looked on, her mouth furiously chewing a piece of gum. The Historian was beside her, watching with a stoic expression.

They’re all lost in the moment. You’ll have to do what’s necessary when it comes. When Wei’s Specter appears . . . If her Specter rises up from her corpse . . .

Skye’s finger rested gently on the trigger of her VR rifle.

“I have a faint signal,” Ben said. He removed the diodes from her head and affixed them to her torso: one on her chest, one on the side of her ribcage. “I’m going to perform ventricular fibrillation now. If it doesn’t work, we need to move her inside the office so I can connect to the gravity battery.”

“Clear,” Tahlia said.

Skye felt a lump grow in her throat. She swallowed hard, trying not to think about what a Spectral form of Wei might look like. It would rise up from her body like some kind of spirit, glowing with a bright yellow energy. It would look around, deciding who among the Coterie would be its first victim.

Shoot fast, before anyone can stop you.

“Clear,” Ben said. He pressed the button again. Wei’s back arched more violently, then fell back to the floor. Her mouth opened. A quiet, soft whine escaped her lips. She took a deep breath. Her eyelids fluttered open.

“Wei!” Gabriel sobbed. He pushed past Cassy and knelt beside her. His hands shook; he rested his head on her stomach, crying softly. “I’m so sorry, little bug. I’m so, so sorry.”

“By Hades, I don’t believe it,” Cleo said, mouth agape. “People don’t survive Specter attacks. This girl’s one in a million.”

“One in seventy-one thousand,” the Historian said. The other kids pushed past him, crowding around Wei and marveling as she stood up on wobbly legs. Skye could only watch, astonished, her finger still on the trigger of her rifle.

Ben reached out for Gabriel, then thought better of it and simply set down the medscanner, unhooking the diodes. He stood up. “There have been a couple recorded survivors of Specter attacks. But the Specters in question were already terribly weak to begin with. And the survivors . . .” He let it trail off, glancing down at Wei with concern. He sighed. “Good job, Tahls.”

The girl nodded, unable to contain her smile. “You too, doctor.” She looked over at Skye. She was waiting for confirmation! Skye gave her a nod and it seemed to satisfy the girl.

“That bug’s claw went into her,” Cleo said. “I mean, this is totally amazing.”

Ben looked at Skye, wearing a cute grimace. She couldn’t help but smile. He had such simple expressions and said “Um” so often that it had immediately ignited her ire. But the calmness he’d displayed, his steady hands, the very look of authority on his face while he saved Wei’s life . . . that had been, well . . .

Hot. Might as well admit it. Enjoy the moment, girl. You earned it.

“You’re hurt, too,” she pointed out, breaking the silence that had fallen over all of them.

Ben looked down at his hand. “Oh. Yeah. Just a little scratch is all.” He took off his glove and held out his soft palm. A “scratch” was almost an overstatement . . . it was little more than a thin line on the surface of his skin. It seemed impossible that such a surface wound could cause so much bleeding.

“You guys,” Cleo said, holding up her VRacelet. On the dimly lit touchscreen was a digital timepiece. “Dawn is literally happening right now. In a few minutes, every Specter in the area is going underground. How about we get the hell out of here?”

“Yes,” Ben said, taking off his glasses and using one finger to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “We need to send an emergency message to the Spartan Defense Center.”

“Why?” Skye asked, unable to quell suspicion from bubbling up.

“Bad stuff,” Cleo said. “Bad, bad stuff. Specter tests, DNA tests, and a whole lot of Specters doing things they’re not supposed to do.”

“You breached Level One security.” The Historian’s voice came from right over Skye’s shoulder. She turned, surprised to see Seamus’s calm expression replaced by a look of absolute terror. It seemed so alien on his face that it was almost comical. “You’ve doomed us all.”

“So you say,” Skye muttered. She turned to Ben. “Talk. You’re saying they were conducting experiments on Specters? So the Specters got loose somehow?”

“Um.” He looked at Cleo. “Well, judging by what we found, it’s clear the breach came from inside the mountain. A Specter made its way through the mountain, into the Phenocyte reactor core, causing an emergency shut-off.”

“Then the shields went,” Cleo added. “And then the animals escaped the zoo.”

“That’s impossible,” Tahlia said. She looked up at her brother. “Right? Specters lose energy when they pass through solid mass. No Specter is strong enough to pass through meters and meters and meters of solid rock. Right, Ben?”

Ben opened his mouth, then shut it. He shook his head.

Tell them about the human Specter.

Skye turned away from them, staring at the steel shutters leading outside. She couldn’t tell them. Father would need to know first. That was what he would want.

“I don’t know what exactly was going on in that lab,” Cleo said, “but I sure would like to know who in Clan Persia thought they could build a Specter containment unit.”

“They lied to us,” Ben said. “All of our teachers. They told us a bedtime story so we would feel safe at night. The Specters are more dangerous than we’ve been led to believe.”

“Five minutes,” Cleo announced. “Then we’re officially safe.”

“We don’t know anything for sure,” Gabriel said. Skye listened to him take a deep breath, hiccupping. She didn’t want to see his face. The weakness would be written all over it: the red eyes, the wet cheeks, the pale lips. She didn’t want to see it — those types of extremely despondent emotions were so absent on Spartan campuses. Seeing them on Gabriel’s face had made her feel so uncomfortable . . .

Because he’s weak.

No. He’s happy his sister is alive.

“You’ve doomed us all,” Seamus said harshly, interrupting Skye’s thoughts. “When Parliament finds out that the Coterie breached a Level One clearance, they will . . .”

“What, Historian?” Skye spun around. She stepped up to Seamus, pushing the tip of her sharp nose against his. She was nearly his height; as he shrank back his shoulders slumped. “Why can’t you just tell us what you know, coward?”

Seamus backed up a step. “Because I can’t.”

“Yelling at him won’t help,” Ben said. “We just need to get to the Tumbler and get home. We’ve been through a lot. All of us.”

“Two minutes,” Cleo said.

Skye turned back to the shutters. It was bad enough the Historian’s cowardice had nearly gotten her killed . . . now he was clearly withholding information.

If you’re so upset about secrets, then tell everyone about the human Specter.

No. That information goes to Clan Sparta first. Father decides what to do with it.

. . . But what if Father knows about the human Specters?

“Cassidy,” she said. Her brother stepped beside her. He was still holding Wei’s pistol in his left hand, his own pistol in his right. He stood a head shorter than her, yet he seemed to have grown a few inches since the morning.

You’re just not used to him standing so tall.

“You did really well,” she said. She swallowed her jealousy. “Father will be pleased.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“Well I don’t. I just want to get out of here.”

“I’m proud of you.”

He took a deep breath. “Thanks. I care about that.”

She smiled and reached an arm around his shoulder.

“Time to go,” Cleo announced. “The party’s over. Don’t worry about the mess . . . our hosts have graciously agreed to clean everything up. It’s the least they can do.”

Skye stepped aside, watching Gabriel walk with Wei wrapped tightly around his waist. The girl looked sleepy and sick, like she might vomit at any moment. But she’s alive. She’s alive because of Ben’s quick thinking.

The Athenian and his sister put away their medical kits, following Cleo and Reza and the Historian. As Ben passed he gave her a weak smile. A cute smile. She missed the chance to smile back before he turned away. There would be other chances. They would be working together a lot from here on out. They would take a couple classes together. They would train twice a year together. They would serve Parliament together whenever needed.

And who knows what the future holds?

They stood in a line in front of the steel shutters, Cassy on one end and Skye on the other.

“All right,” Skye said, lifting her rifle. “Open the shutters, Cleo.”

Cleo entered a command on her VRacelet. The steel shutters rose. Morning sunlight seemed hesitant to slip inside the loading bay. The sun was somewhere to the left of the facility, and the morning rays bounced off the two black Tumblers, casting weak shadows over the ground. Now they could see clearly just how many had died in the rescue attempt. Spartan bodies were strewn everywhere. One was reaching out toward the entrance. Two more lay near the rescue Tumbler. Three had formed a perimeter, dying with their VR rifles still clutched in their hands.

“Slow,” Skye ordered. “Gabriel . . . slow!”

“Sorry.” He stopped while the rest of them caught up. He’d managed to take a handful of steps, pulling Wei with him, foolishly getting ahead of everyone else and putting himself right in the line of fire should something spring up from the shadows.

He’s afraid. He’s weak. This is why Father doesn’t trust Parliament. It’s run by people like Gabriel who can’t control their emotions.

Skye cleared the thought, mentally discharging it like a proton bullet. Gabriel had at least remembered the role of the Coterie, and that was something. Had Gabriel not spoken up, they would have never come to this place. They would have returned and the first thing Father would have asked was: why? Why hadn’t they responded to the distress call and fulfilled their duty? She’d been wrong and he’d been right. And he’d been willing to risk his life, too, if it meant saving others.

Don’t stick up for him.

Why was she so conflicted?

Skye pointed her rifle toward the trees at the edge of the small lot in front of the doors. The camera on her glasses searched for movement. It identified something: a red circle appeared in the thick leaves a handful of meters from the ground.

“Chi, enhance.” The camera zoomed in, giving her a pic-in-pic.

A bird. A tall bird with a flat head and red plumage.

“Clear,” Skye called. She fought the urge to check her six. Instead, she moved closer to the other Tumbler, panning her rifle back toward the facility.

Trust Cassy.

“We’re inside,” Gabriel’s voice came through the earpiece.

“Get Wei in the back,” came Ben’s voice, stern and professional. “I want to do a complete scan and get some electrolytes in her body.”

“Skye,” Cleo said. “You should probably get in here. The satellites are back up. We have an emergency comm request.”

Skye turned. Cassy had his back to her, pistols pointed at the sparse pines just beyond the gravel lot on the opposite end. Just like he’d been taught. Just like a true Spartan warrior. Skye backed toward him so she could cover the entire entrance to the facility. “Back up slowly, Cass. I’ll cover you.”

Cass backed up to the Tumbler door. Skye followed him inside, blinking a few times to adjust to the dim lighting. Cleo was at her control panel. Wei was lying on an aluminum tray that had been lifted from the floor in the rear. Ben sat beside her, inserting a thin needle into her arm while Gabriel and the Historian watched. Reza and Tahlia sat in the seats nearest to Wei, holding hands.

Cass shut the door and went to the co-pilot’s seat, dutifully powering on the engine. It hummed to life under their boots.

“Who’s the comm from?” Skye asked, leaning in beside Cleo. She saw the name blinking on the holoscreen and felt her heart drop.

“It’s your pops,” Cleo said. “Ready?”

Skye shook her head. “Is our shield up?”

“Not yet,” Cleo said. “The battery drained during our little detour. The solar plates on the roof need to suck up some sunlight.”

Skye took a deep breath. “Put him onscreen.”

Cleo punched a button. Skye’s father appeared on the holoscreen, his image a deceptive three dimensions. His face looked worn and haggard, less primped and proper than when he’d seen them off the previous morning.

“Father,” she said, fighting the urge to say more. She had so much she wanted to tell him. She’d killed multiple Specters. She’d saved the life of a free citizen. She’d accomplished more than most Spartans did in their entire lifetimes and now he would finally be proud of her. His eyes would look on her with the same warmth they shined on Cassy.

“Are you safe? Is Cassidy safe?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly. “We intercepted a distress call . . .”

“The city is under attack.”

“Sacrebleu,” Cleo whispered, falling back in her chair.

Skye felt her eyes sting with hot tears. She fought them back. “How?”

“Specters moving underground.” Father shook his head. “We don’t know how, exactly, but it’s happening all over the world. Every major city is experiencing the same attack. It started last night and even now in broad daylight, Specters are infiltrating sections of the city. They’re going directly for the Phenocyte reactors.”

A coordinated strike. “But that’s impossible . . .”

“It’s possible and it’s happening,” he snapped. “Now listen to me, and listen carefully. I’m sending you the coordinates of an airbase located ninety kilometers away. It’s a Level Two security clearance, and the Persians in your Coterie have been granted clearance.”

“We can come back,” Skye said.

“What?!” Cleo shouted. “No, we can’t. We really, really can’t.”

“I can go back,” Skye said, leaning in close to her father’s image. The only thing missing was his smell: a musky, nose-stinging aftershave. “There’s another Tumbler here, Father. A rescue mission that failed.”

“Were that I could see you and Cassidy fight with me,” he said with just a hint of remorse. More emotion than Skye had heard in his voice in a long, long time. “But these orders come from Parliament, and you will all obey them.”

“I killed a Specter,” Skye blurted out. “More than one, Father. I can come back. I can help!”

He shook his head. “You will go to the airbase and await further instructions.”

His image disappeared.

Skye turned to Cleo. “Bring him back.”

“I can’t raise the secure channel,” Cleo said. “I mean, I could with a little time, but we don’t have much of that, do we?”

Skye shook her head, staring down at the warm holo-bulb. Every muscle in her body wanted to get out and jump into the other Tumbler. Father had to know of all she had accomplished. He needed to see the daughter he had raised.

“What’s going on?” Gabriel asked from the back.

“Everything’s bad,” Cleo said. “Monumentally bad.”

“Is everyone gonna die?” Reza asked.

“We’ve been ordered to go to an airbase,” Skye said, forcing the words out. “So that’s what we’re going to do. Cleo, plot us a course. Cass, pull up the navigation.”

“But is everyone gonna die?” Reza asked again.

“We’re going to have to move without shields,” Cleo said. “Otherwise, our battery will be drained, even with the solar plates catching sun.”

“So be it.” Skye sat in the driver’s seat, pulling up the control panel and fighting back a flurry of emotions. The glass screen lit up, providing her with a readout of the vehicle’s main functions. The solar panel on the roof was operating at only six percent efficiency thanks to the morning light. The rear right axle had a hairline fracture, no doubt the result of last night’s escape. The condenser coil inside the VR cannon was fried.

And about a dozen other things.

She revved the engine, feeling it hum underneath her feet. “What do you have for me, Cassy?”

Her brother pulled up a blue line on the windshield. It curved left, guiding her out of the small lot in front of the research facility. Skye slid her hands into the manual control slots, squeezing the twin grips. She turned the vehicle around, feeling the heavy wheels crunch on a discarded VR rifle. The blue line guided them along the old broken-down road through the forest. It had an eerie stillness to it, a calm beauty that made Skye’s entire body tingle.

In the city, there’s chaos. Complete, utter chaos. Screaming. Video ads going out. Autotaxis malfunctioning. Fires. Death. And here . . . everything’s calm.

“Goodbye, super top secret research facility,” Cleo murmured. “And thanks for the horrible memories.”

“I’m slowing us down,” Cassy said quietly. The engine’s moan softened under Skye’s feet. She fought the urge to nudge the manual acceleration pedal with her right foot. Let Cass take care of that. It’s his role as copilot. Calm your nerves. You have one direct order: get to the airbase.

And then you can do whatever you want.

She glanced at her brother. The boy was biting a knuckle but at least his eyes were on the control panel, monitoring the damaged road; he tapped on his console, and with each tap a new red dot appeared on the road, identifying a pothole. She’d expected to coddle him during this mission, and yet here he was doing what needed to be done. Enough training had stuck, to hell with what his dejected instructors told Father. She could still remember listening from her room while Father and Mother spoke with Cassidy’s combat instructor. “No instinct,” the instructor had said. His evaluation had been met with a cold silence.

He was wrong. Cassidy can take care of the others. I can go back and fight alongside Father.

The blue line ran up to the old highway road, leading them west. If they turned east, they would head back toward the emergency supply depot. If they went past the emergency supply depot, they would reach the city limits in a handful of hours.

A city under siege. Skye had seen enough photos and video feeds in her training classes from the first Specter attacks. Entire cities overrun. Gray-skinned bodies of civilians lying in the streets. Power went out and fires started and emergency sprinkler systems malfunctioned under the uniform stress. Streets went quiet as people hid anywhere they could. Spartan soldiers moved between damaged autotaxis and share-cars, fighting a ground war with an army of ghosts.

And now it’s happening all over again.

“Wait, what are we doing?” Gabriel called out from the back. “Why aren’t we going back to the city?”

“Are you kidding?” Cleo asked, incredulous. “Uh, maybe because the city is under attack?!”

“That’s exactly why we need to be there!” Gabriel exclaimed. In the weak reflection in her glasses, Skye could see him unbuckle and walk to the front of the Tumbler, his hand grasping the stationary bar along the ceiling. “Skye, we need to get back there. We need to help!”

“We’re following orders,” Skye said. The words tasted rotten on her tongue. She kept her eyes on the road, steering the vehicle left to avoid a pothole that had become home to a bulbous fern shrub with bright green leaves. Ahead, the trees thinned out, giving way to wild knee-length grass and beyond that: a lake. A beautiful blue lake with tall mountains watching over it.

“They need us,” Gabriel urged, grabbing the back of Skye’s chair. “Skye, every gun will count. If what your father said was true . . . we can make a difference. We’ve already proven that.”

“And what about your sister,” Skye growled. It infuriated her, knowing that Wei was laying in the rear of the Tumbler without her brother. Her brother, standing here and telling Skye — a Spartan, of all people! — that the right thing to do was fight. She knew that already. But Gabriel wasn’t a fighter. And neither was Wei.

“How about we trust the adults on this?” Cleo said with a frantic, cracked screech. “Especially the Spartan elder who knows way, way more than us about what’s going on? Eh? Doesn’t that seem like a totally better idea than driving back into a city overrun with Specters?”

“The adults?” Gabriel’s grip on Skye’s chair tightened. She could hear from the sound of his voice that he’d turned toward the Persian but she didn’t dare take her eyes off the damaged road now. It had been repaved at some point but a single tree near the edge of the asphalt had chosen to play the role of the antagonist, letting one thirsty root creep under the road, cracking it. The exposed roots rose up like tentacles sitting on the surface of seawater.

“Yeah, the adults,” Cleo said. “As in: the ones who aren’t blubbering emotional wrecks at any given moment.”

“The same adults who were running tests on Specters in a top-secret facility?” he shot back. “The same adults who intentionally hide the truth from us and make us study decades-old textbooks about creatures no one fully understands? The same adults who told us late at night when we were afraid of ghosts that the Specters could never penetrate the shields?”

“OK, so maybe it sounds bad when you put it like that!” Cleo shouted. “But I don’t want to go back!”

Tahlia and Reza began crying. When Wei joined in — gentle, hiccuppy sobs — Gabriel finally released his grip from Skye’s chair and returned to the back of the Tumbler. She took a deep breath, glancing at Cass. He glanced back, grimacing and glassy-eyed. But he wasn’t crying. He was a Spartan, through and through.

They came upon the lake. The road led to an old parking lot and a quaint wooden lodge overrun with weeds and thick, green brush that had begun to crawl up the rotten gray wood exterior. Dirt and moss had accumulated on the roof. The windows were broken; soft, dark green branches jutted out and reached up toward the Ring. The sign — ACAI LAKE CAMPGROUND — had faded, with dark black stains covering the G and U. A sandy beach ran along the shore. A single white lifeguard stand sat in the center of the beach, its paint peeled and the wood covered in black rot.

Skye kept the Tumbler on the right side of the road, unable to fight the urge to tap the accelerator pedal. She didn’t want to see this frozen memory. This place was a reminder of what things were like before the Specters. A terrible thought echoed inside her head:

Get used to the sight.

Chapter 23: Seamus Oshiro

Historian

The images flashed inside his mind one after the other, like a video feed that had been looped: the Sebecus Specter knocking him over, its terrifying jaws opening, revealing two rows of sharp, incandescent teeth. Its scales, bristling as it used its muscles to press down on the shield protecting Seamus’s body.

The shield meter in the lower corner of his right lens, flashing yellow.

And the one terrible thought playing over and over in his head: it’s a ghost it’s a ghost it’s a ghost it’s a ghost.

And then Skye had shot the creature, and it had turned and went after her. Seamus had drawn his pistol but was too afraid to shoot it more than once, sure it would turn and attack him again.

And then they were both gone. He sat in the hallway, alone, breathing deeply. Two hundred and twenty-six breaths, every single one he remembered. And then Skye was back. He’d thought about how he might excuse his cowardice but she’d simply run past him. He’d followed her back to the loading bay, where all hell had broken loose.

He remembered every moment. Every second leading up to the attack on Wei. In his mind, he could see the look on her face as she looked into the hatch of the shipping container: surprise, mixed with fear. Historians weren’t taught to speculate on expressions — they were expected to be as objective as possible. Don’t guess. Facial features were important only in context.

In the case of Wei, perhaps, it would be important to note that something inside the shipping container had frightened her to the point that she hadn’t noticed the Manteidos Specter emerging from the closed steel shutters at the front of the loading bay.

But he may never have to deliver a report at all.

Things were different now, and as a good Historian, Seamus turned to history as his guide. When the Specters first arrived, the intense shockwave of the Ring’s initial orbit sent tens of thousands of the creatures to earth. Cities were unprepared. They had no weapons that could destroy the creatures, and in the first few years chaos ensued. By day, they congregated, strategized, and helped the wounded. By night, they ran for their lives. Fires seemed to hurt — or at least distract — the creatures and so it was possible to at the very least slow down their onslaught.

Then, Clan Athens developed a prototype for a proton device that could disrupt the Specters’ energy signature, and with the help of Clan Persia, they weaponized the technology. Clan Sparta used the first few weapons to carve out a safe zone, and from there the War Machine’s gears began to grind. A factory was set up. Blueprints were transmitted via satellite. Clan Sparta coordinated, and with each new safe zone established, humanity gained a foothold. Free citizens rebuilt and repaired during the day, and during the night they hid while the clans fought and died to keep what humanity had won back.

At first, it was thought the Specters might be planning. Coordinating. But there was no pattern to the way they fell from the sky. It took years to understand the truth. Years to design a shield system that would keep the creatures at bay by propelling them with a positive pulse charge. Years more to develop new Phenocyte reactors to provide continuous power for the shields. The Specters seemed to grow more aggressive — speculation, not part of the official history — and at one point the prototype shield protecting the ruined city of Neo Franco failed.

The Historians made their tally as best they could, counting first the inhabitants of the restored cities, adjusting for new birth rates, then assumed a 99.9% death rate for those left outside of the shields.

Five billion, three hundred million, nine hundred and twenty-eight thousand, one hundred and seven dead.

Seamus closed his eyes as the Tumbler hit another bump. His stomach was empty and it hurt; all the bumps were making it a hundred times worse. When he closed his eyes, he saw the memories of the past two days running through his head in perfect detail. Fifty-three dead bodies. He forced his mind to go back farther, to his first days in secondary school when he made the decision to become a Historian.

At least, Master Diego had called it a “decision.” But what else was Seamus good for, really? His mind was a near-perfect recall machine thanks to a combination of genes that gave him eidetic memory, a rare condition that usually went away by the time an affected person reached adulthood. But for Seamus, the condition did not cease. He could memorize entire history books on the first read. He could recount the events of every single day for the last fifteen years. They told him he was special. He was a unique individual capable of doing great things for the Alexandria Library.

And then he went into secondary school, and was surrounded by teens exactly like him. Some were born into families with the same gifts. Others had been picked out of the population just as Seamus had been. Two dozen, total, from all over the world. Kids who’d taken the mag-rail trains from city to city, during the day when it was safe to travel. Kids who could remember everything. Some already had such horrible memories — falls, arguments, accidental cuts, accidental spills, seeing an autotaxi accident and a wounded person lying in the road. All these memories stacked upon one another in each child’s mind, refusing to fade into something more manageable.

What was happening to Alexandria now? Seamus didn’t want to think about it. No one there was a friend but some he was acquainted with, and he worried about their safety now. Were they as worried about him? Probably not. There was little room for emotion in the Historian’s life. There was little room for anything but History.

So let them die, he thought morbidly. Let them all die and maybe he would be able to call for a do-over, an opportunity to reject the life of the Historian and save his Basic Income to build a quaint little print book store. It would be the kind of store for people who still desired the relics of the past, the ones that humanity could never quite give up — paper would always be with us, Seamus believed. Where does one put a book in a modern living space? Pre-fabbed shelves and cubbies in homes were designed for computing consoles and holoscreens and 3D printers, not books.

So Seamus would offer a place to read. He would offer coffee and tea, and people could get together and read the classics and have lively discussions. And Seamus would remember every single discussion, and at night he would play all of the wonderful discussions inside his head and he would smile in the darkness.

No. Even if humanity survived this attack, there would be no room for bookstores. There would be only death and destruction. Only the most essential survival elements would remain. Those who survived would be conscripted, ordered around, working from the moment they awoke until the moment they fell asleep. They would live in terror, thinking nothing about books and everything about survival. If they fought back the onslaught, the free citizens would rebuild and the Historians would dutifully record. That was the way of things.

“We’re five minutes out,” Cleo announced.

Seamus took a deep breath, hoping it might quell the sick feeling in his stomach. It did not. In his lifetime, he’d had fifteen colds and two bouts of influenza. Both cases of influenza had made his stomach feel similarly icky, though now his stomach felt heavier. His stomach muscles were sore because they’d been clenched since the moment the Tumbler began picking up speed.

He wished he could tell them the truth. Ever since the Specters arrived, they had been studied in top-secret facilities. But there had been so little learned — and so many accidents — that telling the people meant stoking only panic and fear. And they had been so close to a breakthrough. If only they’d had a few more years . . .

He shook the thoughts away. It was not his place to lament.

Beyond the lake, the road smoothed out. Seamus felt the knots in his stomach tighten, as if the others suspected he knew about this, too. He did, of course. This road had been repaved for the scientists in the research facility. The scientists and techies and Spartans and management flew in, then traveled to the research facility. It was not coincidence that General Mitchell had sent coordinates to an airstrip tucked away in the mountains.

Seamus closed his eyes. Oh, how close they’d been. The scientists had found something, some new key to understanding the Specters and so their work had been granted Level One clearance. Seamus knew only that tests were occurring, but knew nothing of the tests. He’d seen some files he should not have, and had not reported his insubordination because the memories of punishment had prevented him from doing so.

His stomach lurched again.

It wasn’t just motion sickness. The Coterie had stumbled upon secrets, and it was possible there would be no repercussions simply because there may not be anyone left to mete out any punishment. Post-war, societies changed. Sometimes, they changed for the better and grew closer, reforming health care programs and welfare and social networks. Sometimes, they broke into factions and fought over resources. Sometimes, humans divided themselves up and killed those who were different.

Seamus looked right. Wei was laying on a flat steel gurney that Ben had unfolded from the floor of the Tumbler. She was secured with two nylon straps wrapped over her chest and thighs. Ben had run a needle into a vein in her little hand and was running an electrolyte drip, the tube connected to the small medical terminal, its touchscreen providing a running tally of the fluids being distributed. Wei’s eyes were open. She stared up at the ceiling of the Tumbler, her mouth moving but no sound coming out. But her mouth was forming words. And Seamus could read her lips well enough:

What are you I’m scared you’re one of them how did you get here?

Gabriel returned to his seat beside Wei, running a hand over her head. “Little bug, what do you need? How do you feel?”

“I can see them,” she whispered.

“Who?” Gabriel asked.

“The Specters.” She turned her head. “Who are you?”

Her brother looked at Ben, who was sitting next to the medical terminal. Ben reached up, adjusting the drip by using the touchscreen. “I’m going to give her a minor sedative to keep her comfortable.”

“Why is she hallucinating?” Gabriel asked. “Why can’t she remember us?”

“I don’t know,” Ben answered patiently. “But her body scan didn’t show any problems. It could simply be an after-effect of the attack.”

“It could be the trauma,” Tahlia offered helpfully. She sat across from Gabriel, watching him with the same look she watched everyone else. It was purely speculation, but Seamus had the distinct feeling the girl was studying everyone. Including him.

“The important thing is to be patient,” Ben said.

“Two minutes,” Cleo announced. “I have a satellite connection to the airbase and I’m powering up its main computer now . . . no shield . . . no Phenocyte reactor on-base . . . getting an inventory list now. Oh. Oh man.”

“What is it?” Skye asked.

Cleo turned to her and said something to Skye in a low voice. The Spartan girl didn’t respond, but Seamus felt the Tumbler pick up speed. It hit another bump. He felt bile creep up his throat. He swallowed it, trying to push away memories of the Sebecus Specter that had pounced on him. Those teeth . . .

“They want me to be a part of them,” Wei croaked.

Gabriel used his thumb to rub the center of her forehead. “Shhhhh. Just relax, little bug.”

If Seamus had been there, he would have stopped them. He would have insisted they leave the shipping containers alone. What was in those shipping containers was meant for the researchers in the facility, not a bunch of brats going through the Proving. He ached to tell them the truth. Those shipping containers . . . they’d been so close to a breakthrough.

How could Parliament share the truth with the people? How could the terrible truth hidden inside those shipping containers be parsed and watered down to appeal to the frightened masses?

How do you tell humanity they’re not the Specters’ first victims?

Even the half-truth was too much to bear: that the Specters were a superior race. The full truth could not be shared. There was such a thing as too much knowledge. Historically, whenever new ideas and research bumped into conventions and beliefs, there was conflict. Pushback. Denial. It had nearly doomed the human race at least a dozen times.

“We’re coming up on the airbase,” Skye said. “Ben, Wei needs to be ready to move. Cleo’s satellite feed is showing Specter activity in the area. They’re moving in broad daylight.”

“Right,” Ben said. He leaned in, carefully removing the needle from Wei’s hand. The sight of it sent more bile crawling up Seamus’s throat. He turned away, watching the Persian boy nervously tap his fingers on the edge of his computer console. He was looking out the front windshield, watching the airbase approach.

The base was small, designed in the simplistic way that helped building bots function efficiently without human oversight. The building itself was hexagon-shaped, two stories tall with reinforced windows along one end and twin steel doors on the other. A thin control tower stood beside the main building, sleek like a needle and striped with rusty rain stains. There was one runway and two helipads, each one painted with neon yellow targets.

They passed the runway. A small rover-like robot with two winged solar panels was moving along the nearest helipad, using a single arm appendage to seal a crack in the rubber-infused concrete. BOTCO upkeep robots — a Clan Persia corporation. Seamus knew their history only mildly well. Robotics had been a subject he’d avoided, worried all the technical jargon would bog down his day-to-day thinking process. He did not like memorizing technology. He liked memorizing narratives.

“This place looks new,” Reza said.

“It is new, bro-bro,” Cleo said. “Well, newish.”

“More we don’t know,” Ben murmured, unstrapping Wei. With Gabriel’s help, they got her sitting up. Ben kept a hand on her leg to keep her steady. “Wei? On a scale of zero to ten, how dizzy do you feel?”

“Three,” she said quietly. She looked around. Her eyes locked with Seamus for a moment. Seamus turned away, suddenly ashamed. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t decide what people knew and what people didn’t know. He was still a Historian in training. He absorbed History. Other people distributed the knowledge. Adults who knew what they were doing. He had to trust that.

Otherwise, his conscience would haunt him forever.

The Tumbler slowed. Ahead, the massive chain-link gate slid open. The road had flattened out considerably, intersecting with another road that led through the mountains to the northern metropolis of Homme. Seamus knew this, and he knew exactly how many researchers at the secret facility — 22 — had lived in Homme. Some of the dead bodies from the Commons room were those same researchers. Seamus couldn’t stop cycling through their terrified faces.

That could have been him.

“I’m going to park right outside the hangar,” Skye said. “Just in case we need to make a quick escape. Cleo.”

“Right. Doors opening. Abracadabra.”

The twin steel doors of the airbase rose up. Above the doors, two red lights began blinking.

“Get ready to move,” Skye said. “Cassy’s going first. Then Cleo. I’ll bring up the rear.”

“You’re going to be OK, little bug,” Gabriel said. He grabbed her hand. The Tumbler slowed. “Ready?”

Wei nodded dreamily.

“Clear,” Cleo announced. Skye unbuckled, punching a button over her brother’s shoulder. The Tumbler door slid open, revealing bright sunlight. Seamus squinted, watching the others disembark. Gabriel held onto Wei, guiding her while Ben followed with a hand on her back, ready to catch her if she stumbled. Reza went next — the boy looked afraid but also concerned. The boy’s secretive obsession with his video games the previous day would count against him during evaluations, but perhaps Seamus could also mention the boy’s clear connection to Wei, and the outpouring of empathy and compassion he’d provided to the girl.

If they got through this alive.

Skye nudged his arm with the butt of her rifle. “Go, Historian.”

Seamus hopped out of the Tumbler. The air had warmed considerably, allowing him a brief moment to relish the beauty of the natural world surrounding the airbase. Tall mountains farther north and west. Tall green pine trees in every direction. Bright yellow birds flying between the trees, singing three-note songs. Nature fought so hard against the Specter scourge. It was, perhaps, an opportunity for reflection in the official history. Something that humanity’s own resistance could be measured against.

Beside him, Cleo’s horrible pet robot floated by on its propellers.

“Move,” Skye ordered. “We’re not exactly out of danger yet.”

Seamus followed the others inside the hangar. Once they were all inside, Cleo pressed a button on her VRacelet. The doors lowered. Lights overhead turned on, revealing two heli-jets, sleek and sharp-looking, with twin VR cannons on their wings. To the right was a small square-shaped command center lined with windows overlooking the hangar. Inside were multiple consoles and holobulbs arranged in a half-circle around a much larger glass screen. It was a throwback to the old command centers of space agencies, when manned space exploration was the norm.

“I’m sending a ping to the emergency comm channel,” Cleo said. “The consoles in the command center are booting up. We should get a message in a moment.”

“They want us to evacuate somewhere,” Gabriel said, looking up at the massive heli-jet. “Skye, do you know how to fly one of these?”

“I know how to fly anything,” Skye said briskly. She swept her VR rifle in a slow arc around the hangar, taking two steps toward the command center. “But we are not evacuating anywhere. The orders were to get everyone here. We’ve done that. I’m going back to the city.”

“Um, is that a good idea?” Ben asked.

“Incoming message,” Cleo announced. She raised an eyebrow. “That was fast.”

“Let’s go,” Skye said, ushering everyone into the command room. The door slid open but the lights didn’t turn on — just the large screen hanging over the computer consoles. Seamus filed in last, unable to shake the jitters. He had a bad feeling. He hesitated and felt the butt of Skye’s rifle jab against his back. The motion hurt him more than he expected. He’d felt surprisingly close to the Coterie. He’d felt honored to have been even considered to partake in a vote. He wanted that. He didn’t want to be an outsider.

But he had so many secrets.

The face of Gabriel’s mother appeared on the large screen. Carmen Martinez, thrice-elected representative of the Third District. Gained notoriety during her first term when she and her husband led an investigation of the potential health effects of the city Xenoshield on human beings, requiring Clan Athens to pursue further study. Seamus knew all this and yet seeing her on the screen now sent a chill down his spine. Parliamentarians of her stature maintained a stoic presence on public and private feeds. All feeds ended up public at some point.

But Gabriel’s mother, now, looked tired and weary and sick. Her skin was pale, the bags under her eyes pronounced; her normally smooth brown hair looked as if it had been bunched up inside a helmet of some kind.

“Gabriel,” she said. “It is good to see you and Wei are safe.”

“What’s happening?” Gabriel asked. “How can we help?”

“You will take the doors to Hangar Bay Two and board the ship named Apollo. Skye will evacuate your Coterie to the Ark.”

“Absolutely not,” Gabriel stated. “Mother, you can’t be serious! What about you? What about everyone else’s families?”

“I am already aboard the Ark,” she said sharply. “And I do not know about the families of your Coterie. What I do know is that your safety comes first.”

“My life isn’t worth more than anyone else’s!” he shouted. The response surprised Seamus. Of course Gabriel’s life was more important. His parents were highly respected, and it was historically accurate to state that the offspring of great politicians were often great in and of themselves. Gabriel’s very upbringing granted him exceptions and opportunities that most Clan children and free citizens didn’t experience.

The others in the Coterie could be replaced by the Gene Bank.

“This order comes from Parliament,” she said calmly, looking at every single one of them. Her eyes lingered on Seamus, making him incredibly nervous. “You will bring Gabriel and Wei and the Historian to the Ark. That is your new mission.”

“We can save —” Gabriel stopped. The communication had been cut off. The holo-bulb, still warm, slowly cooled like a spent fire ember. Only the soft hum of the environmental unit broke the silence.

“Well.” Cleo tapped on her VRacelet’s touchscreen, powering up the room. More lights blinked on overhead. Consoles booted up, a chorus of fans whirring. Her robot, AGNI, floated beside her, its little camera eye surveying the room. “I guess it pays to have friends in high places.”

“I’m not going,” Gabriel said flatly.

“Uh, yes you are. We all are.” Cleo waved a hand toward the lift doors to their left, next to a tall server station built into the wall. “Something went totally wrong. We lost. So now we’re going to pack up our things and start over on a new planet and it’s going to be totally awesome because we’re going to be alive and not dead.”

“No.” Gabriel shook his head. “Take Wei and save yourselves. I’m not leaving.”

“Gabe!” Wei squealed, hugging his waist. “Don’t leave me!”

“You’re going to be with our mommy,” he soothed. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I want you, too. You’re my brother and I love you.”

Seamus felt a tug on his heart. How stupid this boy was, to even consider giving up such a relationship. To give up the opportunity of starting a new life on a new planet free of the Specter threat.

“I don’t think any of us have a choice in the matter,” Ben said quietly. “We would be hard-pressed to explain ourselves if we arrived at the Ark without you, Gabriel.”

“I can’t leave.” He shook his head, pacing near the door. Seamus watched Skye take a careful step closer to him, no doubt sensing that he may run. “This planet is worth fighting for. We can stop the Specters. We can part the water.”

Seamus blinked. Part the water? A reference to an ancient religious text, perhaps? Did the young man see the Specters as an enslaving army led by some ghostly pharaoh? Or was it a reference to something else?

“Just because we’re going up there doesn’t mean the fight is over,” Ben said. “It’s possible that essential personnel are being relocated for safety. It’s also possible that leadership is using the Ark as a command post. Right, Skye?”

The Spartan girl nodded reluctantly. “It might make sense. If the Specters are breaching the shields on Earth by moving underground, the Ark’s shield system is probably still impenetrable.”

“All the more reason for us to get our butts up there,” Cleo said. “Shields. Safety. Probably some clean clothes. What’s to hate?”

“We’re all a little traumatized,” Ben said quietly. “If we, uh, just took a few deep breaths and thought this through . . .”

“And what if you’re wrong?” Gabriel asked them. “What if we get there and the Artemis Bow shoots us through a wormhole and we end up orbiting New Earth?”

“Then we thank the universe for saving our butts,” Cleo said. “Seriously. Am I the only sane one here?”

“No, I’m sane too and that sounds great,” her brother added with wide, serious eyes.

“Listen to me.” Gabriel began pacing again. He pointed to the floor. “We will never have this again. No poverty. World peace. A true Democracy. Medical advances that would have been unfathomable just a few hundred years ago. Clean, unlimited Phenocyte energy. The Ark is a colonizer frigate. If we abandon this planet, we start over from scratch.”

Reza’s head turned sharply to his sister. “So we really won’t have video games?”

Cleo rolled her eyes. “We’d still have the technology aboard the Ark, but I guess we’d have to do some rebuilding. Anyway, you’re missing the main point: we will still be alive. And really, isn’t that what we’re talking about here?”

“She’s sugar-coating it,” Gabriel said. He seemed to be talking directly to the Skye and Ben now, in Seamus’s opinion. “There are no cities on New Earth. No plumbing. No shelters. It will all be built from scratch, and yours will be a hard life. In time, we’ll forget about how far we’ve come and we’ll start arguing about resources. Then we’ll fight. Then we’ll choose sides.”

“OK, so you definitely win an award for Best Drama,” Cleo said, clapping her hands. “Way to go. You’ve managed to scare all the kids. But it doesn’t matter because we have direct orders. We’re screwed if we don’t follow them!”

“She’s right,” Skye said. “Our orders are to take the Apollo to the Ark. But that doesn’t mean we have to stay.”

Ben ran a nervous hand over his head. “You can’t be serious.”

Skye looked at him. “I want to fight back, too.”

“So how do we do it?” Gabriel asked.

Skye nodded to Cleo. The Persian girl slid her finger across the VRacelet’s touchscreen. “Lift power activated.” Cleo pointed to the sliding door on the far end of the control room. A touchscreen beside the door blinked on, and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL appeared in green letters. “There’s our way out of this nightmare. I don’t think anyone will mind that I hacked the private lift for our purposes.”

Seamus followed them to the lift. They all squeezed in, and once the doors closed they immediately descended. AGNI bumped into Seamus and he reached out to keep her from floating directly in front of his face like a giant annoying fly. Seamus’s stomach shifted as the lift plummeted quickly, then slowed, putting pressure on his sore feet. The doors opened again a breath later. Seamus was the first to step out, and the moment he did, the lights turned on, revealing the underground launch center.

Steel floors. Walls carved out of rock, reinforced with massive steel beams that ran crisscross all the way to the top, a hundred meters above. Lights hung from the beams, shining down on the Apollo. The jet sat on heavy double-wheels, its dagger-like nose aimed toward the far end of the hangar. It reminded Seamus of the paper airplanes he would make in primary school, during lunch when he and the other Alexandria students had a few spare moments to just be kids. He’d made 324 airplanes, and 27 of them had flown so well that the delicate paper noses had plunked into the far wall of the cafeteria.

The Apollo was the opposite of delicate. Twin engines ran along its back — big, tubular devices made of blackened steel. Heat-resistant panels lined the wings and remainder of the hull. The panels were clearly used, judging by their scratchy appearance: The Apollo had breached Earth’s atmosphere before, and it had made the return trip, too. Seamus could only stand in awe of the thing. His memory pulled up obscure tidbits he’d seen about ramjets — once, during a news report about the transport of zero-gravity building bots destined for the Ark-in-progress, a reporter had casually mentioned that the average ramjet was thirty meters long. This seemed about right.

“Supersonic ramjets that draw in oxygen to break the sound barrier, plus additional rockets to provide the extra kick to breach the atmosphere,” Skye said, unable to contain her excitement. Seamus knew with near-certainty that she was anticipating the opportunity to fly it.

“Forty fist-sized rocket thrusters to provide movement in space,” Cleo added. “Two ion batteries to provide additional power. Two emergency solar sails.”

“It’s awesome,” Reza said.

Cleo nodded, looking up at the ship’s twin vertical stabilizers. “You said it, bro-bro. We’re leaving this planet in style.”

There was only one way inside: a pull-down staircase leading to the cabin door. They walked fast, but not so fast that they couldn’t all take a moment to admire the ship.

“It’s a Fifth Generation Apollo, if anyone’s interested,” Cleo said. She plucked AGNI from the air and cradled her in both arms like a teddy bear. “They used these to ship a few people to the Artemis Bow, after its Phenocyte reactor was put in place and its shield was up and running. Robots probably carved this entire bunker out. Probably PLX-TOOL bots. Good for digging but they tend to wear down their rotors pretty quick.”

No one else spoke until they reached the stairs. Skye led the way, pulling open the door and stepping inside. One by one, they followed. When it was Seamus’s turn, he ducked inside, surprised to find a spacious cabin with five rows of chairs and U-shaped consoles, two per row, built into the metal floor with fat, circular rivets. The two pilots’ chairs were tucked snugly into a command console at the front that was as daunting as any console Seamus had ever seen. He’d expected a tight compartment and uncomfortable seats, but each seat had thick yellow cushions and a fully functional console complete with a touchscreen and holo-bulb.

Skye stood by the entrance, glaring at him. “Back row,” she said.

Seamus walked between the seats. Ben and Tahlia were sitting in the two seats nearest the front. Gabriel and Wei occupied the next row. They were holding hands and had to let go so Seamus could pass. The second-to-last row was filled by Cleo and Reza.

In the last row was one empty seat. The other seat was occupied by AGNI, which Cleo had taken the care of strapping in. The bot had assumed a rectangular, vaguely humanoid form to accommodate the straps. She turned to stare at Seamus through her camera eye, once again giving him the creepy feeling that she was alive. Referring to the bot as a “she” in his mind wasn’t helping things, he realized.

Seamus climbed into the neighboring seat and buckled in, feeling the cushion adjust to his weight. It was almost too comfortable under the circumstances. Fleeing Earth required uncomfortable seats, in his opinion. He didn’t want to feel comfortable.

“Engines warming,” Skye said. Her voice coming through Seamus’s earpiece tickled the fine hairs in his ear. His body was tingling now, a chemical reaction happening inside a closed system. This ship couldn’t possibly make it into space. They couldn’t go into space without spacesuits. They would crash and die.

His memory brought up something Ben had said: “We’re all a little traumatized.” Was this trauma, then? This icy tingling that made his left leg bounce against the soft seat? This terrible worry that death was lurking over his shoulder, sickle ready to slice his neck? This irresistible urge to break down and cry?

Sharp, perfect memories of all the Specter victims ran through his mind. Gray flesh. Sunken eyes. Wrinkled, dry lips.

“All systems go,” Cleo announced. She had a holoscreen of the Apollo brought up on the console in front of her, providing her with more than a dozen readouts. “Literally everything. This ship is in perfect condition.”

“It’s possible this ship was prepared for those working in the secret facility,” Ben said. “It would make sense to extract them in an emergency.”

Behind Seamus — and above him — he could hear the screeching whine of the engines beginning to pick up speed. The low metallic sound seemed to vibrate the steel directly above his head. That couldn’t be the right sound. It was too loud. And steel shouldn’t shudder like this.

“We run on twin turbofan engines first,” Skye said calmly. “To escape the atmosphere, we use the rocket fuel. You’ll feel the change. Double-check your straps. Make sure they’re tight.”

Seamus’s shaking hands found his straps. He ran a finger along the metal connector twice to be sure.

“Opening the hatch,” Cleo announced.

Suddenly, they were lifting. Not flying, but lifting. Either the floor was rising on hydraulic lifts to the surface level or the ship’s hoverfan was propelling them upward. They breached the surface. Sunlight streamed in through the panes of rounded glass at the nose. They were facing south, where the mountains were low enough for a jet to take off and land.

The engines increased their whine. Sound dampeners negated the worst of it but it was still loud enough and powerful enough that Seamus could sense it all around him. His body felt warm and suffocating inside the Ecosuit. Was it supposed to be like this? Was it supposed to feel so stifling, or was it his imagination? Was he afraid of flying?

The Apollo’s rubber wheels rolled on the smooth concrete, around the airbase hangar and onto the main runway. Seamus had never flown before, of course, but in the movies someone always announced over the comm system that they were about to take off. Skye did no such thing. Instead, the ship simply began to pick up speed, the twin engines growling.

Then the ship began to move much, much faster.

Seamus gripped the armrest, accidentally turning on the touchscreen on his console. It automatically brought up the ship’s diagnostics, providing him with the speed.

150 km/h.

175.

225.

The bump-bump of the tires rolling across each patch of runway concrete ceased. Seamus felt his stomach bottom out. The ship was airborne. He could feel it in his body. He could feel the speed of the vehicle moving through him like a fast-moving stream flowing around a wayward rock.

“Skye,” Cleo said.

“I see them.”

“Skye!”

“I see them!”

The ship banked right. Through the front glass, Seamus saw half a dozen Manteidos Specters flying toward them, so close that he could see their glowing red wings flapping wildly. They disappeared out of the sight as the ship climbed higher. The Apollo penetrated the clouds, and all Seamus could see through the front windshield was white. When they emerged, there was only the Ring arcing over the sky, looming over the planet. The ship banked right; Seamus clutched the seat, feeling his body move slightly as it pressed against the loose straps.

“Hold on,” Skye said calmly. “Initiating ramjets. Keep your heads back on the seat. If you feel sick, look forward.”

The ship increased its speed. The nose rose higher toward the bluish atmosphere. Seamus closed his eyes. Vertigo muddled his head. The ship began to shake. Someone in one of the rows ahead was whimpering or crying, but Seamus couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. They were climbing higher, faster, and he could feel his body pressing into the back of the seat. The muscles in his neck refused to loosen and they became sore, making it impossible to swallow. They were riding a colossal wave, and a shark had a hold of Seamus and was shaking him fiercely, but the wave was too strong and it was pushing them both.

Higher.

Higher.

Then: a pause. He felt his body drift forward, trying to catch up with his stomach. Were they in space? He opened his eyes. He could see the soft delineation of the Earth’s atmosphere far ahead. He could see the curvature of the planet! He could see the blackness of space beyond. He could —

The engines let out a terrifying roar. Seamus’s body slammed back into his seat with such an intense force that he nearly blacked out. It was as if the ship had been fired from a cannon. He wanted to scream but he couldn’t open his mouth. His skin pushed on his muscles and his muscles pushed on his bones and his bones screamed for release.

And then it was all gone. All of the pressure, all of the force and urgency and intensity. The ship was calm. The engines grew silent. Were they falling? No. His body felt ghostly, held in place only by the seat’s straps. He was weightless.

They were in space.

Seamus blinked. The others were looking around, too. From where Seamus was sitting he could see Reza fumbling with the straps. His sister, sitting across the aisle, looked as if she’d passed out. She opened her eyes, blinked, and immediately reached across the aisle to swat Reza’s hands. “What are you, nuts? You’ll float away! You’ve never been in space!”

“I feel sick,” Ben said. “I’m going to apologize right now for vomiting.”

“The atmospheric stabilizers are fully operational,” Cleo told him. “You’re not gonna puke. Everyone is going to be all right. Just take a deep breath.” She seemed to fight a grin, then gave up, flashing it right at Seamus. “Forget everything that’s happened to us for just a second and, like, be in this moment.”

They sat weightless in the silence, staring out at the vast emptiness of space. In the direction the nose of the ship was facing, there were only stars. No signs of civilization. No Ring. Just blackness and stars in every direction.

Ben turned in his seat, looking at Wei. Gabriel was clutching her hand. “Are you all right? How do you feel?”

“Icky,” came Wei’s quiet voice.

“I’m guiding us toward the Ark,” Skye said. “Cleo, is the ship all right? I have about fifty status readouts on my screen and have no idea what any of them mean.”

“Uh . . .” Cleo slid her finger across her three-dimensional screen, pulling up a new one that was filled with bright green-and-yellow diagnostics. “Yeah. Everything’s nominal. A few extra burn marks on the exterior, but that just gives this beast some character.”

“OK. Everyone sit tight. The Ark isn’t too far away.” Seamus noted the new tone in Skye’s voice. Was it a rare moment of relief? Best not to speculate.

“I’m gonna put down the blast panels,” Cleo said. “Might as well enjoy the sight a little while longer. Because, you know, Armageddon and all.”

Two long, rectangular panels to the left and right of Ben and Tahlia lowered, revealing more space. Skye adjusted the thrusters so that the Apollo banked right. As it did, Earth came into view through the window to Seamus’s right. It seemed to rise up as if peeking in through the glass.

It was beautiful.

Seamus took a deep breath. All of his training rushed out with his next exhale. There was no way to detach one’s emotions upon seeing this. The land along the horizon that seemed to be painted on the globe. The swirling clouds encompassing the northern atmosphere, puffy and thick and full of life. The ocean, such a striking blue that Seamus had to turn away to keep from crying. To think: a color could bring out such emotions in him. Something must be wrong. But when he turned to look again, it hit him anew. It was the promise of that rich, dark blue. The promise of a vastness that his eyes couldn’t possibly comprehend.

Here, seeing it all, gave him a perfect understanding of why Skye and Gabriel wanted to return to fight. No speculation was necessary — Seamus did not want to abandon this planet, either.

“We’re coming up on the Ark,” Skye announced. “Looks like we’re not the only ones hitching a ride.”

Seamus leaned over in his seat so he could look out the front of the ship. Skye was right: there were other spaceships flying beside the massive Ark. Another ship was in the process of exiting the earth’s atmosphere, this one much bigger than the Apollo and carrying a massive red fuel tank along with twin propulsion reactors. As it escaped Earth’s pull, the ship’s thrusters kicked in and the massive red fuel tank detached. It drifted slowly back toward the planet, growing smaller and smaller.

“One-way ticket,” Cleo murmured. An anxious beeping sound began emitting from Cleo’s console. “Wait, we got a problem. That’s a proximity warning. Skye, check your starboard!”

To their right, there were two more ships, cruising past the larger ship. One — sleek, with a fat box-shaped body and two detachable solar wings — banked left, half its thrusters firing wildly. Its right solar wing bumped into the larger cigar-shaped ship, tearing away a chunk of metal.

“Hold on,” Skye said. “Cleo, are there any other ships below us?”

“No,” Cleo said. “You’re clear! These are the only idiots within a thousand meters.”

Skye banked the Apollo left. Seamus braced himself, expecting to feel his body turn sideways while gravity pushed him left. But instead, he remained securely in place in his seat. The clicking of the gas thrusters, audible inside the cabin, was the only auditory evidence they’d changed position.

“Sacrebleu!” Cleo shouted. “Skye, that close call of theirs loosed a heckuva lot of debris. They tore a chunk right out of the hull and now their cabin is depressurizing!”

“Is there anything we can do?” Gabriel asked.

“Yeah, we can give them a wide berth so we don’t hit any space debris,” Skye muttered. “I’m going to show them our belly. It has thicker armor.” The thrusters engaged again, pulling them left. Seamus watched the dark shape of the Ark disappear from sight. Earth appeared in the top of the windshield.

A sinking feeling plagued Seamus. Now he could see the Ring, orbiting Earth, angled, fiery red and threatening like some restrictive collar. Out here it was clear the Ring was thousands of kilometers away and yet its very size was enormous. And he could see more, too: a handful of cities on the land between two massive swirls of white clouds. Black smoke rose up from the cities, so thick that it could have been mistaken for a volcanic eruption. Black smoke of that magnitude could only be due to a complete Phenocyte reactor breakdown.

“Once upon a time,” Gabriel said, “in the land of Hush-A-Bye . . . around about the wondrous days of yore . . . they came across a kind of box . . . bound up with chains and locked with locks . . . and labeled ‘Kindly do not touch; it’s war.’ A decree was issued round about, and all with a flourish and a shout . . . and a gaily colored mascot tripping lightly on before . . . Don’t fiddle with this deadly box. Or break the chains, or pick the locks . . .”

“. . . And please don’t ever play about with war,” Seamus finished from memory.

Skye took the Apollo underneath the much larger cigar-shaped vessel, traveling in the shadow of its belly like a fish swimming below a shark. It was quiet, only the shifting of Reza in his seat to entertain Seamus’s eardrums. He couldn’t turn away from Earth, even when Tahlia pointed out the magnificence of the Ark up ahead. Earth’s gravity pulled on Seamus’s eyes. There was the Akashi mountain range. It rippled across the surface just like the pictures he’d studied in primary school, only here in this place, without the edges of an image file to limit its scope, it seemed so much more immense.

There, just east of the mountain range: Neo Berlin. “Look,” he whispered. “Our city.”

“What of it,” Skye said, not turning.

“There’s no smoke yet,” Seamus said. “That means their Phenocyte reactor is still safe.”

Gabriel craned his head to look. “Someone’s fighting back.”

They all looked through the glass at their home.

A new beep emitted from Cleo’s console.

“We’re getting pinged,” she said. The image on her holoscreen posted a list of commands and she reached up, tapping the RECEIVE button with one nimble finger. “I’m bringing it up now.”

The holoscreens on everyone’s console turned on. On each screen was the face of Gabriel’s mother. She moved her weary eyes from left to right, then, satisfied, allowed a smile. “You all made it. You can’t begin to comprehend how happy I am. Spartan, you will dock in bay seven. I’m uploading the location to the Persian’s console. Follow the automated flight response. We are not allowing anyone to dock without authorization.”

“What of a counterattack?” Gabriel asked.

“There is no counterattack,” his mother replied calmly. “Seven major cities have already fallen. Cleo will ping comm channel five when you’ve safely docked.”

Everyone’s holoscreens went off, except for Cleo’s. She was cycling through datasheets, tossing the three-dimensional files left and right so they lined up side-by-side. “She’s not being entirely truthful,” Cleo said. “The Apollo’s sensors are picking up more than forty Phenocyte reactors in thirty-six cities still operational. Coordinated counterattacks. Someone’s definitely giving the Specters all they can handle.”

“All the more reason to get back down,” Skye said. Another red light began blinking on their consoles. Skye looked over her shoulder at Cleo.

“Uh . . .” she used her hand to toss aside all the digital files and pulled up a new screen with a 3-D diagram of the ship. “Bad news? Something flew out of the hole in that ship and dinged our hull. Minor structural damage. Good news? We’re officially close enough to the Ark that it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m turning on the autopilot,” Skye said, exhaling so deeply that it was audible in Seamus’s earpiece.

The ship’s thrusters automatically altered the trajectory, slowly turning it forty-five degrees. They were moving directly underneath the Ark now. The Ark, like a massive gray whale, looked as if it was lowering itself onto the Apollo, but as they moved closer to the belly, a hatch opened, revealing a docking bay. The Apollo drifted upward, guided by the thrusters. A thousand different safety lights blinked on and off. There were reinforced windows in the docking bay, but Seamus saw no human beings.

Through his earpiece, Seamus could hear Skye calmly talking her brother through the automated flight system’s progression. Surely, Seamus thought, the girl was something special. At least, in the eyes of the Spartans who valued strength and bravery. He hoped she would receive some kind of commendation. She deserved it.

But then the memories of the research facility returned in blinding detail. Things would never go back the way they were — the Parliamentarian had been right. Whatever happened next was uncharted territory, and if humanity’s history was any indication, it would be a trial indeed.

“Initiating a connection with the Ark,” Cleo announced.

A screen popped up on all of their holo-consoles. Seamus flinched. The screen featured a close-up of a beautiful green meadow with a herd of buffalo grazing in the distance.

A robot rolled past on two treads.

“Congratulations on your selection to colonize New Earth,” a pleasant female voice said. “When you arrive, you’ll find that many of your anxieties and fears have already been addressed. Thanks to nearly a century of terraforming, the air will be breathable. The gravity is a stable 1.002 g, which means you’ll feel the same as you do now . . . only just a tiny bit heavier!”

“Cleo, shut this crap off,” Skye said.

Cleo pounded on her console. “It’s a pre-programmed message coming from the Ark’s computers. I can’t.”

The image shifted, featuring a topographical scan of one section of the planet. Gentle, rolling hills. A valley filled with familiar-looking trees — maple, pine, magnolia, palm. It looked, to Seamus, like a very pleasant sort of place to start over. “New Earth was selected from a list of forty potential candidates. Once the Artemis Bow was complete, terraforming began immediately. It took years for the first robotic messages to arrive to Earth via laser signal, which gives you an idea of how far away the planet is!”

“Ugh I hate your voice!” Cleo shouted, tapping madly at her console.

“For the past forty years, more than a million bots have been carefully establishing species crucial to the biodiversity of the planet. Plants and insects came first, along with plankton for the oceans. Larger animals? Now that was a real challenge! The artificial wombs were designed —”

The screens blinked out. Cleo shouted in triumph.

“Docking,” Skye announced. The ship jolted, then stopped. A long blade of lights blinked on in the docking bay, revealing the enormity of the place. There was room for another spaceship of similar size to the Apollo, maybe two. “The doors are closing. Cleo, ping his majesty’s mother.”

“Roger that,” Cleo said. “Pinging the old lady.”

“Then what?” Ben asked. “You two can’t seriously just drop us off and go back down there. What if . . . I mean, they might need you here.”

“They need us down there,” Gabriel said.

Wei’s hand grabbed his arm. “No! Please don’t go back down there! The Specters want to kill us all!”

“I’m not giving up on this planet,” Gabriel said. “I’m sorry, little bug.” He sighed and wiped a tear from his cheek. “And I think maybe you’d be safer away from me.”

“I will come with you,” Seamus blurted out.

They all turned in their chairs to look at him.

“I . . .” He cleared his throat. What was he doing? The memories of all the dead bodies came back. They were replaced by the Sebecus Specter’s fiery red jaws closing around his head. But then something wonderful happened: a memory of the planet, looming large, hypnotizing him with swirling white clouds and endless oceans. He squeezed his eyes shut; a tear rolled down his cheek. “I do not want to abandon this planet, no matter the consequences.”

Gabriel looked over at Skye. She opened her mouth to answer — maybe to say yes, maybe to remind Seamus how little she trusted him — but before she could, a new warning light flashed on all of their consoles. The lights in the hangar shut off, blanketing the ship in a darkness without stars. In the pitch-blackness, Seamus saw only dead bodies. He grabbed the armrest of his seat.

“What’s happening?” Skye asked. She tapped on her console. “I’m locked out. Cleo!”

“It’s the Ark!” Cleo said. She scrolled furiously through three-dimensional screens, stacking them one on top of the other above her console. “Everything’s locked up. The Ark is receiving a signal from the Artemis Bow. Oh, for the love of Hades! It’s about to open a wormhole!”

“Unlock everything!” Skye shouted. She pounded her fist on the console. “Hack through the systems. Do something!”

Cleo’s hand flipped the holoscreen. Seamus watched and his vision seemed to blur, as if he’d spun himself around too many times and then stood still. He blinked, expecting it to wear off but instead it only got worse. Cleo put her arm down but an after-image seemed burned into Seamus’s retinas. She was saying something; the sound of her voice echoed, growing deeper, passing his ears again and again like traffic on a busy street. His stomach twisted. His lungs ached for air.

The images came at him, leaving trails. He closed his eyes, squeezing out tears. This was it. He was dying.

And then it was over. The discomfort vanished, leaving no trace. When Seamus opened his eyes, he saw everyone else looking around, just as bewildered. Red warning lights blinked on their consoles.

A memory of the last few moments played out in Seamus’s mind. He could see it all. He could feel the discomfort. He could hear Cleo’s voice traveling past him. The Historian in him tried to put the experience into words, but there were no words to describe it.

“Cleo, what happened?” Skye asked. “Don’t tell me . . .”

“Uh . . . yup. We’re gone.”

“No!” Gabriel shouted. He fought with his straps, unlocking them. His body floated out of the seat. He grabbed the back of the seat and pushed himself toward the hatch. His body floated too high; his legs bumped up against the glass ceiling so he kicked it, bringing himself to the door.

Seamus pushed back all of the conflicting feelings and watched, memorizing it all. Whatever feelings he had about leaving Earth, whatever emotions his body might want to express, it was clear that now his training would need to take over. Someday, this might be important. Every single event from now until his death . . . it would all need to be recorded.

Analyzed.

And perhaps hidden away.

Curse the Historians, he thought; curse them for taking the humanity from him.

“No!” Gabriel shouted, slamming his palm against the automatic locking mechanism. “We can go back! We got here, we can get back!”

“Not without an Artemis Bow,” Ben said quietly. He was looking down at the floor between his seat and Tahlia’s. Tahlia wore a confused, panicked expression. Her eyes studied Ben’s grim face with her usual curious look. “The Artemis Bow builds the wormhole. The Ark moves through it. We’re light-years from Earth.” He laughed. “What we just experienced is amazing and incredible and magnificent and sad and depressing. I can’t even process it.”

“How many people did we leave behind?” Reza asked. “Thousands?”

“Millions,” Gabriel answered. He was still floating, one foot pressing against the back of Reza’s seat. “She waited for us.”

“Who?” Skye asked.

“My mother. She waited until we were safely aboard. Until I was safely aboard. As if my life matters so much more than anyone else’s.”

But it does, Seamus wanted to tell him. Ben and Tahlia knew science. Skye and Cassidy knew war. Cleo and Reza knew computers. And Gabriel knew law. He knew how society functioned. Historically speaking, that value outpaced all others.

Historically speaking.

“Wait,” Cleo said. “Hold on.” She grabbed one of the three-dimensional screens and crumpled it. It evaporated in a puff of pixelated smoke. She pulled up another screen. It was a video feed, showing the circular atmosphere of their new home . . . and something else. Something floating in space, shaped like a U. “Something’s wrong. This is an image coming in from one of the Ark’s camera systems.”

Skye unbuckled, floating away from her seat. With careful hands, she more or less gracefully floated to Cleo’s seat, grabbing the back and pulling herself down. “What is it?”

“It’s an Artemis Bow,” Cleo said. “It’s a freaking Artemis Bow.”

It was Ben’s turn to unbuckle next. He clumsily turned, grabbing onto his seat for dear life. “That’s . . . whoa . . . that’s impossible.”

The kids unbuckled, too, floating, unable to control the smiles on their faces. Seamus wanted to smile with them. A part of him wanted to unbuckle and float across the cabin and let the experience fill him with temporary joy, the kind of happiness that humans can find in even the direst situations. But his fingers wouldn’t let go of the armrest.

Something was wrong. Seamus knew it. He swallowed hard.

“That’s an Artemis Bow,” Cleo said, pointing to the image on the screen. It looked like an Artemis Bow, floating in the space orbiting a planet that looked very much like Earth. The Artemis Bow’s exterior was slightly more rounded, its curvature lined with glossy solar panels reflecting the bright light of some nearby star. With the exception of a few emergency solar-powered lights illuminating the steel exterior, the immense object was mostly dark, nearly invisible in the void of space save for the blue lines drawn in by the Apollo’s sensors.

Seamus’s lip trembled. There would be no hiding the truth anymore.

“Cleo.” Skye licked her lips. “Can you run a scan of the planet?”

“Sure,” she said, drawing up another screen. Her fingers moved impossibly fast over the keyboard, entering an array of codes. “I can use the Ark’s wireless system to do a topography scan. It won’t be anything spectacular, but it should give us a general reading of the nearest hemisphere.”

She typed in a code. The New Adults waited, holding their breaths. The kids pushed away from each other, bouncing against the walls of the cabin. Seamus watched it all, breathing fast. All of humanity’s hard work. Thousands of years of careful Historical construction . . . and for what? It was all about to fall apart.

“Info coming back now,” Cleo said.

The three-dimensional screen began spitting out details of the planet. Ben scrolled through them, pushing his finger through the image and then wiggling his finger to get more readouts. “This . . . this isn’t New Earth. The topography is all wrong. The size is different. The gravity is weaker. The solar system is bigger. It . . . it has cities.”

“What do you mean, cities?” Skye asked.

Ben turned to her, wide eyed. “Cities. This planet is already inhabited.”

They all looked at Seamus. He cleared his throat. On their consoles, red warning lights continued to blink.

There would be no more hiding the truth.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

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