The door slams, but I can still hear the smattering of shots fired, far away.

The fighting continues throughout the day, echoing from different spots; the shifts mean McBride’s still out there, if not winning, then at least holding his own. The military have advanced weapons, greater numbers—but McBride and the Fianna know this land far better than soldiers who can’t last more than a month or two before being reassigned.

Sofia ventures out a couple of times, bringing back bits and fragments of information with her. Through her I learn that open hostilities have broken out despite the base’s added security, that the rebels in the swamps are attacking guerrilla-style—drawing out the soldiers with hit-and-run tactics, getting them out where they’re vulnerable. It forces the military to play their game, to fight them on the ground, taking away the technological edge the organized troops have over us.

It’s agony not running out there to stop it, or to help. Is Sean out there? Would he shoot if he saw me? I’d give anything for a chance to talk to him, to make him hear me and understand why I stood between him and Jubilee. His anguish is with me every moment—the instant he lifted his gun, all our years together not enough to bridge the gap between us. The crack of his gun still echoes in my ears. Did his shot miss me because he jerked his hand aside at the last second? Or was he simply shaking too hard to aim true?

Sofia tries to put me to work to distract me, pointing out furniture that needs fixing and leaks in the ceiling her father always meant to get to. My hands do the work, but my mind is frantic, leaping back into panic every time I hear a shot from a new direction.

“Do you think she’s out there?” Sofia asks finally, watching me drop the screwdriver for the third time as I try to fix a wobbly chair. “The trodaire you saved?”

“I don’t know,” I reply tightly. “Probably.”

“I can’t believe she just left you, after that, with nowhere to go.” Despite what she’s said, I can hear the disgust and fear in Sofia’s voice every time she speaks of the soldiers, of Jubilee.

“I left her,” I whisper. The screwdriver feels like lead, and I let my hand fall to rest on my thigh. “I saved her because I need her alive. I can’t find out what’s happening alone, but I can’t—” My voice cuts out as abruptly as if I’d been punched in the gut.

Sofia doesn’t respond right away. “I’m sorry,” she says after a drawn-out silence, her voice much softer now. “I know the pain of sitting, and waiting, and knowing answers may never come.” I lift my head to find her watching me, her gray eyes thoughtful, concerned. “What can I do?” she asks finally.

“You’ve done too much already,” I reply. “I’ll be gone soon. I can’t let you take this risk.” I just wish I knew where I was going to go next.

“You’re not the only one who’s lost someone,” she replies, voice sharpening. “I’ll choose my own risks, Flynn.”

When I look back she’s staring at me, hard, her hands tightening into fists. I remember her as a child always being so careful not to reveal anything through her body language, through her voice; a natural at reading others, she never wanted to be read. Now, I wonder if she’s choosing to let me see this. Choosing to show me this need.

“There’s a place,” I say slowly, “where she’ll leave a message if she learns something. But I can’t risk going there.”

“Where is it?” she asks immediately.

“Molly Malone’s, on the base.”

“Keep the doors locked and the lights off until I get back.”

The girl is waiting, listening to the heavily synthesized tech-rock ballad playing on the jukebox. The green-eyed boy was supposed to meet her at Molly’s, but every time the door opens, it’s someone else. A tall woman with blond hair takes the stool on the opposite end of the bar; a soldier with warm eyes and a laughing redhead on his arm occupy the corner in the back; a guy with pink hair tries to buy the girl a drink, but she doesn’t want a drink, and he eventually gives up.

Her mother sits down on the stool next to hers, trying to get the girl’s attention.

But the girl won’t listen. “I’m supposed to meet someone,” she insists. “I’m not supposed to have to do this alone.”

Even the ghost from Verona has gone.

FOUR DAYS AND THERE’S BEEN no word from Flynn; he hasn’t even gotten the message I left for him at Molly’s telling him to sit tight. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve found nothing since, despite my efforts to comb through the records in the security office, despite examining the security feed of Davin Quinn before the bombing. I find a few frames of myself the night of the massacre, passing through the cameras on the north end of the base, heading for a boat. I don’t remember doing it, but there I am. I can’t see my own face, but I act like me, I move like me. I’ve heard nothing more from Merendsen either—my one lead, my one hope.

I check the bar again and get only a sympathetic head shake from Molly. I try to contain my frustration as I stalk away from the bar, headed for my bunk. Luckily, I’m not known for being all sunshine and light, so if I’m looking a little pissed off, no one’s going to think it’s strange. I can’t remember how I’d act if everything was normal.

Luckily for me, nothing is normal anymore. Our base is now a war zone, and we’re under siege. For now we can still get people and supplies in and out by air, but munitions has reported a number of surface-to-air launchers missing, and there’s speculation that the rebels have them. And that it’s only a matter of time before they start using them on military vessels coming and going.

I punch open the door to my quarters, making the rickety prefab walls quiver. It’s only after pulling off my boots and throwing my jacket over my chair that I see the monitor in my desk is up and its light is blinking at me. A priority message. It can’t be good if it’s from the brass.

Maybe it’s from Merendsen.

I throw myself down into the chair, pressing my palm to the screen to turn it on and register my identity. It takes the machine a few seconds to boot up, my heart pounding in the silence. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for one of the machines they’ve got at HQ that goes from dormant to fully functional faster than your eye can follow the monitor. It’s been four days; perhaps that’s long enough that he’s found out when the next transport is swinging through whatever isolated planet he’s on.