It will take the Conglomerate a long time to recover from all this. I hope I have the fortitude to steer the ship, as you put it, for so long. The government would not benefit from a change at this juncture, but I am tired. To address your question, at last, yes, it is hard. I am always on my guard. I trust precious few with any fullness. I suppose you could say the right hand seldom knows what the left is doing. None of my closest advisors know about you, dear Leviter. But instead of higher rank, I do dream, now, of days in retirement, where I will have earned my peace. What do you dream? Such an odd thing to ask of a man who can make the impossible come to pass. And yet, I ask.

Yours,

Suni

.END-TRANSMISSION.

.ACTIVATE-WORM: Y/N?

.Y.

.TRANSMISSION-DESTROYED.

CHAPTER 4

Jaw clenched, I lead the way through the wasteland. The impact site still steams heat, though the days of sporadic rain have cooled it enough to make it safe for human passage. Small remnants of normal life leap out at me—part of a sign advertising fresh seafood, a child’s toy partly charred and now discarded. The red polymer of the hat has melted across the doll’s face, so it looks like fresh blood.

I pick my way around fallen metal shards, six meters across, and Hit shakes her head as we pass. “This was a ship.”

Though I never visited Castello, I’ve seen vids. This street used to be green with tropical trees, spiky plants grown in their shade. Flame-hued flowers bloomed in profusion on the ivory walls, and children ran ahead of their parents to splash in the fountains; unlike most cities, they didn’t mind such behavior here. Beautiful caramel-skinned men sold iced drinks from cafés lining the public promenade.

They’re gone now.

I remember teasing March with thoughts about how I intended to retire here, but Venice Minor will do a different kind of tourism henceforth. Too many died here for it to be believable as an unspoiled paradise any longer. Someday, there may be monuments and commemorative plaques, so people don’t forget. Mary knows, I never will. I feel their ghosts watching us as we move through in respectful silence toward the city center, where Vel will be waiting. Adele—my spiritual mentor on Gehenna—would doubtless offer a prayer for these lost souls. I don’t know any sacred words, but I offer some heartfelt ones in their place.

“Find peace,” I whisper to the ashes and the dust, to the broken stones and the soot-stained fountain. I bow my head for a moment.

Hit pauses beside me and offers a longer, more eloquent prayer. “Holy Mary, have mercy on these, your lost lambs. For those who remain, enkindle in us the fire of your love. Send forth your spirit, that our hands perform your work, and together, we may renew the face of the world. Amen.”

“Damn.”

The taller woman shrugs. “Madame Kang was a devout woman in her way. She asked forgiveness each time she sent us out on a job.”

There’s a certain twisted logic in that.

Here at the fountain, the heat must have been so profound as to evaporate the water, melt the pipes beneath the ground, and fracture the basin; at least that’s the evidence left behind. I see the overwhelming damage and once more picture Doc and Evelyn, standing hand in hand. The hurt swells; he was my friend, and I killed him. Even if I never know for sure, I’ll still carry the burden of his loss.

We walk on. In places, shop windows melted rather than shattered, clinging to the remnants of the structures in glittering, uneven waves. Sorrow weights my steps, but with each one, I move closer to Vel—to hope—and soon I’m running again, as much away from these memories as toward the promise of rescue.

Hit keeps pace beside me. I don’t worry about being spotted by the Morgut anymore. So far, we’ve heard no sign of recon drones, and they’ve shut down the planetary communication network with sheer destruction. Vel mentioned scout ships, but unless we power up some impressive machinery, they’re not going to notice us.

I hope.

Ten minutes later, we arrive at the city center, what used to be a civic administrative complex. Now there’s only wreckage and the scent of dust lingering in the air. We climb the steps and wait beside a fallen monument; this used to be a statue of Padric Jocasta, the general who fought in the Axis Wars. His family has been famous for generations, and his descendant Miriam, the diplomat, died in no less spectacular a fashion than her forefather. Now he’s toppled from his pedestal, the bronze melted and disfigured.

“Think he’ll make it?” she asks.

At first, I think she’s talking about Padric, whose monument is clearly cast down, then I realize she means Vel. Before I can answer, I spot movement in the distance. He never lets me down. I break into a run, going down the stairs as fast as I can manage in my mud-caked boots.

I’d recognize him anywhere; the commander of the Ithtorian fleet has come to rescue me alone. Somehow I’m not surprised at all. Instead of a hug, I greet him with a heartfelt wa. Dearest white wave, you come for me even to the breaking place . . . and brown bird waits in despair.

He returns the salutation. Always, brown bird. The tides are locked. And then he takes me in his arms. Huddled against his cold chitin, I should be more conscious of his otherness, cradled by claws that could disembowel me, and yet he is dearer to me than my own heart. He is not the same person as when we met, but . . . neither am I. Time has refined us, but instead of pushing us apart, we’re closer than ever.

“Come,” he says. “Let us return to the ship. There, it will be safe to talk.”

Though it’s another four kilometers, the journey passes in a blur of dizzying relief. Neither Hit nor I have eaten much in the last twenty-four, but it doesn’t matter. Determination will carry us as far as we must go. I move in silence, avoiding the worst of the wreckage.

As Vel told us, their ship—a skiff with a skeleton crew—put down on the other side of Castello. This private estate fared slightly better than my mother’s villa, and there’s no further hell falling from the blue sky. This is a small, light vessel, sleek and aerodynamic. Interestingly, it’s crafted of a dark alloy, probably nearly invisible to the naked eye at night. Hit and I board, grateful to be out of the elements; I’m sunburned, chafed, and covered in bug bites, but I’m alive.

Unlike Doc and Evie.

With effort I put the guilt aside. There will be a time for me to let it excoriate me. Just not now. So I take stock.

This ship reminds me of the one Dina won from Surge, at least in terms of size. It’s newer, of course, just built in the revitalized shipyards on Ithiss-Tor. The hub has eight seats and two corridors heading off in opposite directions. One must lead to the cockpit, as we came down the other from the boarding area. A couple of Ithtorians linger here, working on the equipment, but they give me the impression they want to listen in. I wonder if that means they have translation chips. Tiredly, I drop down onto the nearest seat, appointed for Ithtorian comfort, which means the backs are longer and the seats are lower to the floor.

As I strap in, Vel hands me a packet of paste. Grimacing, I tear it open with my teeth and squeeze a glob into my mouth. “I thought you couldn’t abide this stuff—that you’d rather die than eat it.”

“Perhaps,” he admits. “But I would not choose that option for you.”

His words fill me with warmth, despite the situation.

“Catch us up,” I invite.

“Shortly after you disappeared”—his vocalizer offers no judgment on the decision—“March commandeered the Dauntless, along with the crew who were fit to fly, and went back up to join the fight.”

Frag. I understand his state of mind better than I want to. I can imagine what he thought, how he felt, all too well, when he played what might’ve been my final message. He may never speak to me again. This time, I went so far outside the chain of command that I’ll be lucky if they just boot me out of the Armada.

“When did you get here?” Hit asks.

“You were fortunate,” Vel says. “The Ithtorian fleet arrived before you changed the beacons. When we joined the battle, it was only the Dauntless, against the whole Morgut vanguard.”

Shit. I could’ve killed them all. The idea that my impetuous behavior might have hurt my best friend makes me ill. Big-picture thinking has never been my strong suit, but I’ve never been quite so sick over it before. I still stand by my decision, but I am beginning to believe I didn’t consider it from all angles. Instead, I led with my heart and just jumped, which is my greatest strength and my biggest fault.

Despite my dread, I manage a smile. “You saved their butts, huh?”

“I did.”

“Go on,” Hit prompts.

Yeah, tell us what we need to know. Who survived? Who’s on the Dauntless?

“A large number of the Morgut ships were lost in grimspace,” Vel answers. “You timed that gambit well. They had just begun jumps to strike other targets.”

But not New Terra. Those bastards didn’t touch our homeworld.

I nod. “Conglomerate losses?”

“Yes.”

I imagined as much, but it’s hard as hell to hear it. “Because of me?”

He declines to reply, which offers its own answer, but I have to know the worst. I persist, “Vel, tell me. How many lost?”

“Three ships.”

“How many?” I repeat hoarsely.

“Each carried a full crew, Sirantha. Two hundred souls.”

Dear Mary. I killed six hundred people. And that’s not counting any private vessels that may have been traveling. The math at how many family members will be grieving because of me becomes impossible, astronomical. If I thought the universe hated me after the Sargasso, well, I suspect I haven’t seen anything yet. The public will scream for my blood.

And they’re right. They are so right. The tally’s too high. This time, it’s no misunderstanding. I’m not the victim of somebody else’s scheme. It’s all me. I steady myself with some effort, repeating my prior conviction. Someone had to make the tough call. It’s regrettable, but you saved lives. You did.

While I wrestle with the sickness in my stomach, he goes on, “I arrived with twenty ships, and we aided the Dauntless. When only a few Morgut vessels remained, I broke from the battle to head the extraction team.”

“So there are still a few up there?” Hit finally sits down herself.

“Scout ships mostly, but I did not wish to risk your safety further.”

Typical Vel. He’s put in charge of the entire Ithtorian fleet, but when push comes to shove, he’s on the ground looking for me. Nobody ever had a better friend.

A third Ithtorian—this one almost as tall as Vel, honor marks on his carapace—comes down the hall from the cockpit. He holds his claws in what I recognize as a salute. “We have the all clear, General.”

“Then take us up.”

“What’s going on?” Hit asks.

Ah. I forget not everyone understands Ithtorian.

“We can fly now,” I tell her.

Hit straps in. Even though we’re not jumping, it’s never a bad idea to refrain from splitting your head on a bulkhead thanks to turbulence. The two crewmen secure themselves opposite us, and Vel takes his place next to me, smoothly fastening his harness. Maybe it’s because he’s lived so long, but he exudes the most reassuring aura of unflappable calm.