by Jenny Martin
I flex him one last time.
PV: NEED YOU TONIGHT.
No answer.
“Everyone’s here,” Hank says.
I look up. The room’s too quiet, and as I scan it, I’m gutted by the looks on so many faces. The hopeful spark of rebellion’s gone, and frozen in their expressions, I catch something worse than fear. Everyone here—they’ve already slid past panic. Now all that’s left is resignation.
I’m nothing but sweat and sick knots pulled too tightly. Reluctantly, I begin. “I’ve asked you all here tonight because I still believe there’s a chance that we can . . .” I trail off, paralyzed by the weary stares. “I know you’ve been through battle after battle, and you’ve fought so hard. I want you to know . . . you have a choice. No one’s holding anyone hostage here. You’re all free to stay or to go.”
I brace for a wave of resistance—sarcasm, indignation, anything—but it never comes. Another beat of stillness. Thank the stars, Fahra rescues me.
“Well, I am not leaving,” Fahra says, crossing his arms. Fierce as ever, he looks over us all, as if rooting out unbelievers. “I stand with you.”
“Hear, hear,” Zaide says quietly. She steps forward. I’m grateful for her courage. She nods, as if sending some my way. Thankful, I accept and turn back to the crowd.
“If you decide to stay . . .” I take a deep breath. I dig deep, curling my toes in my boots. “I’m not here to peddle false hope. But I’d like to talk about what we can actually do to turn things around. Before it’s too late.”
“Haven’t you heard the news?” comes a voice from the back. It’s Nandan’s quartermaster, Belach. At his word, a whisper of life—the smallest murmur of uncertainty—moves through the room. “It’s already too late.”
Fahra curses under his breath, and I can tell he’d like to share a few more choice words with Belach, but I shoot him a quick glance and a shake of the head.
Hal puts a hand on my shoulder, and I take the cue. I drop two hands on the table to nail down everyone’s attention. I have to rekindle the fire. I have to. “Maybe he’s right,” I say. “Maybe I’m wrong, and it is too late. Maybe all that’s left to do is to watch while Benroyal snatches up the last bits of our worlds. There’s probably still time. You could pack up and hitch a ride to Raupang.” Slowly, I turn to meet each pair of eyes. “You could do that. There’s no shame in survival.”
No one answers. Instead, all around me, the pilots and cooks and medics and builders look to one another. In the quiet glances, I still catch uncertainty, but gradually, something else begins to bloom: a silent, steadfast promise, built on the bonds forged right here, in the Strand. We are no longer just Castran, and Biseran, and Cyanese, looking out for our own. After all we’ve been through . . .
We are family. All of us.
Now, in this moment, so many faces wear the same pledge: I will go where you go. You are my people. You’re all I have left.
I meet their eyes. I say it out loud. “We are more than rebels. We are brothers and sisters—not by blood, but by choice. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather fall at your side than live to see King Charlie take what’s left. We have one last shot to rescue Cash and take down Benroyal. So if you’re game for one more fight, stay and listen. Otherwise, you’re free to go.”
My heart beats in my ears.
But no one makes a move, not even Belach. I’m shocked when he finally uncrosses his arms. Along with everyone else, he’s cast his lot. We are in this together.
“All right then,” I say, straightening up. “Let’s talk about the war we can actually win.”
That buys me more than a few blank looks, but I press on.
“Not the war over the Strand,” I say. “We need to win the battle for hearts and minds.”
Still, they are quiet. Willing to listen, but not yet convinced. I squeeze out the waver in my voice. “Right now, Benroyal’s beating us on every front. His propaganda’s turned everyone on Castra against us. His lies have allowed him to occupy Bisera and burn down Manjor. Gave him the power to blow a hole right through the Strand. He burned your own fields and desecrated your most holy ground.”
On the opposite end of the table, a rebel leans forward. “And we answered him. In blood.”
At his words, the crowd comes to life.
“And we paid with blood too,” I answer calmly. “And the whole time, what about the rest of the planet? The rest of the galaxy? No one stepped up to support us. And they didn’t because we’re fighting the wrong way.”
The room’s buzzing. I raise my voice. “We have a plan. An attack on all three fronts: Castra, Bisera, and Cyan.” I look at my uncle, who stands on the other end of the table. “James? Help me out here.”
He leans forward, splaying his hands on the table. “One of the ways the Sixers consolidate power is through the careful management of information. Benroyal owns every satellite and data compressor on Castra. From Mid-iron to Capitoline, official feeds keep the pipeline filled with pro-Sixer propaganda. Everyone else’s transmissions are closely monitored, scrubbed and filtered. And that’s where our allies come in. We’ve got an army of flex hackers, ready to help.”
On the screen, Moira’s avatar nods. “The Fist’s prepared to hack into every sky server, and we’ve aligned ourselves with the largest coalition of flex net hackers on both planets. Together, we’re more than well equipped to hold off any Sixer interference for at least twenty-four hours. On the day of Dak’s coronation, we’ll send out a message.”
“What message?” Belach asks.
Moira smiles. “A nice little breakdown of Benroyal’s dirty little secrets, to be transmitted on all feeds. We’ve made counter-propaganda, using all the best bits from his files. You name it, we’ve got it—financial records, illegal interrogation transcripts, black sap lab blueprints, dealer distribution routes, payout lists for bribed public officials. We’ve even got footage of IP soldiers executing sap miners in the Gap,” she says. “And all of it’s perfectly packaged and ready for delivery in super-compressed unstoppable files, which will be pushed to every single networked screen, banner, wall, and flex device on the planet.”
The war room seems to expand, filled with rapid talk.
“But our work won’t end there,” James says. “Once this gets out, Castra will boil over. We’re counting on every ally we still have there to help redirect the chaos. We’ve already got one Sixer company on our side, Yamada-Maddox, and we’re hoping at least one more will follow.”
Another rebel speaks up. “You won’t be able to control this. Think of Capitoline. This’ll tear the city apart.”
Around the table, others chime in. I catch snatches of conversation.
“—mobs in the street.”
“Blood on our hands—”
“—no way to contain the violence.”
James reins everyone back in. “Yes, it’s a gamble. There will be riots. But this time we’re planning something greater—a widespread, organized response. And once the message is out there, the soldiers won’t be able to contain it. Even the Domestic Patrol will waver. Many of them believe in what they do and simply don’t know the truth. Once they do, I believe they will come to our aid.”
Belach cuts in. “If you’re betting on their good nature—”
“No, we’re betting on human nature,” James says. “We’re out of time. The people have to know. After that, it’s up to them.”
“And it’s up to us,” I say. “Bisera needs our help too. We have a plan to rescue Cash, just before the network attack. We’ll only have a short window to save him, so we’ll work quickly. If he’s still Benroyal’s hostage once everything hits the feeds, he’s dead. But we’re going to try. If the people see Cash is alive, they won’t accept Dak’s rule.”
“And what about us?” Belach asks. “What about the Strand?”
“Th
e Strand is the last front,” I say. “Benroyal is poised for battle. At any moment, he may attack. Here, we’ll make our final stand.” Unblinking, I sweep the room one last time. “If you’re still with us, stay. If not, find a transport west, to Cyan. Your choice. It’s no tread off my wheels either way.”
At first, nothing. But then the first crisp flutter of movement, as the first rebel steps forward. Then another, and another and another, until we’re standing inside something new. An impossible home surrounds me—every wall built strong, made of clear-eyed, straight-backed rebels. At last, the words come. They curl like a closing fist. A hundred fists, held over fast-beating hearts.
Bidram arras noc.
Someone calls from the war-room doorway. From my chest, the voice pulls a deep sigh of relief.
“Cash’s rescue mission. I volunteer,” he says.
I look up. It’s Bear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EVERYONE’S ALL IN. NO ONE EVEN MAKES A MOVE FOR THE exit until Nandan dismisses them. Even then, countless soldiers check in at the table, pledging to stay and hold the Strand, no matter the odds.
Walking in, I had been prepared to go it alone, or to manage with a handful of stalwarts. But now we’re a hundred strong, no matter what the Skal decides to do. It may not equal an army, but on the heels of our darkest hour, it feels like a miracle.
Now the room’s mostly cleared out. Bear asks me to meet him after I’m finished.
James and I tidy up while Miyu says good-bye to Moira.
“You okay?” James asks me.
“I think so. Everything went well, right?”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant . . .” He eyes the doorway, where Bear was just standing. “Is everything else all right?”
“We’re . . .” I nod, course-correcting my answer. “I’m fine.”
James raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. Instead he slips beside me and pulls a flex card from his pocket. “I need to show you something.”
“What is it?” I ask.
He swipes the card against the table to sync an image. “Just take a look.”
I glance down at the screen. The picture, it’s . . .
“Amazing,” I say aloud. And it is.
A flame-tailed phoenix glides in the sky, one wing spread against the wind and the other curled around a constellation. Four stars—one red, one silver, one gold, one white.
“You had this made,” I say. “For me?”
“It’s an emblem. It seemed . . . right. She’s soaring against the storm,” he adds. “Part of her’s always flying. But see the way she shields her own?”
And then I catch on. The artist gathered stars from our own banners. The red star for Bisera. Silver for Cyan. Gold for my home, for the sun-gilt flag of Castra. “Why the white star?” I ask.
“Maybe I picked that one for Earth.” He shrugs, his grin buttoned up and lopsided. “Or maybe for peace. Or . . . okay, I admit it. I just like the symmetry.”
Without thinking, I reach for my shoulder, the right blade where Benroyal’s racing logo is still etched. The driver’s mark is ugly and scarred; the phoenix crest is cleaved in two. I still remember the finish line wreck, the one that left my ribs bruised and my shoulder slashed. Benroyal’s doctors wanted to fix the mark, but I wouldn’t have it. For me, it wouldn’t matter if they stitched or rebranded; the cut would always be there.
I look at the phoenix on the screen, and it’s as if the artist plucked her unscathed from my skin. I trace a forefinger over the bird, from the fire-lit feathers to the small ring of stars.
James leans over the image, as if inspecting it one last time. “It’ll go out with Moira’s message, like a watermark, embedded in all the files and tagged on every image. Every revolution needs a symbol, you know. So what do you think of ours?” he asks, looking up. “Do you like it?”
My hand drifts from the screen and curls at my chest; the heartbeat I find there is both mine and the bird’s. I smile. “It’s perfect.”
I look for Bear, but he’s not anywhere in the tomb. Hank tells me he’s already off duty for the night, so I walk down to Flight Control. He’s there, alone.
In the doorway, I watch him as he hauls a bundle of parachute to the center of the room, then billows it out. The silky chute flutters and undulates before coming to rest. Carefully, Bear walks its perimeter, spreading the cloth for inspection. If there’s any fault or tear, he’ll find it. And he does find something, sure enough. I’m too far away to see the rip, but he seems to consider it, as if he’s not sure it’s worth repairing. He sighs. With a shake of his head, he walks to the other end of the chute. He pulls out a knife to cut something small from its edge.
Whatever he’s taken from it, he tosses it aside.
I walk to him. “You asked me to come.”
Looking up, he nods, then puts away the blade.
“Repacking chutes?” I ask.
Another nod.
I tilt my chin at the one on the floor. “This one’s no good?”
“Nope,” he says.
“What’d you take from it?”
“Oh,” he says, then reaches into the pile of metal rods near his feet. They’re tiny, polished Pallurium cylinders, about two inches long. He picks one up and hands it to me. The coppery tang of battle still clings to it. “These? They’re just beacons. Every chute has them. They stitch a few into the edges, to aid in search and rescue.”
He takes the one in my hand and snaps it in two. Apart, both ends blink. “See? If you jump in somewhere and lose your bearings, you just take one half with you and leave one half with the chute. Each piece transmits its location to the other. Doesn’t matter if you’re six miles away or six thousand. The power cells on these things are damn near infinite, and the range is almost as good. If one half’s anywhere on the planet, the other will find it.” He snaps the pieces back together, and the light grows steady, then dies.
“That way,” Bear adds, “when your squad comes to get you, if you aren’t with your chute, they know where to go.”
“Pretty handy,” I say.
“Yeah. Even if we trash the chutes, we save the beacons. A lot of pilots keep one on them all the time. One half for themselves, the other for their copilot.”
“Do you?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, but he puts the beacon back into my hand. “Keep it,” he says.
He holds on to the beacon. I wait for him to break it apart, but instead, he closes my fist around it, then suddenly he takes my face in his hands.
Eye to eye we stand, and when I open my mouth to say something, he stops me. “Don’t,” he says. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“I still—”
“I know you still love him,” he says. “But I know you love me too.”
I nod against the cradle of his fingertips.
“And I know what’s going to happen. We’re going to rescue him, and when he returns, you’ll be with him again, for always.”
“Bear, stop—”
He strains. His voice deepens, thick with refusal. “But I don’t care, Phee. Be with me. Be with me just for tonight. Just for now. It’s enough.”
Our foreheads touch, and I can feel myself teetering on the edge. Against Bear, I tremble. I could fall so easily, so fast and so far. But if I fall for him tonight, there will be no return. A breath passes between us. His lips brush mine, but I pull away.
“No,” I say. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”
The boy I used to know would’ve retreated in anger or silence. But that boy is long gone, and the man before me won’t back down so easily. Bear slides his arms around me and knits us together. One hand reaches for mine; he presses my palm to his heart. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel this.”
I close my eyes and imagine what’s next; the future unspools in my mind. He’ll bring my
hand to his lips and then mark me with kisses under the billowing silk of the chute. I’ll stay with him tonight and tomorrow and forever and always. Always warm. Always happy. Always safe. Always loved.
The only price for our always is a future with Cash.
I see him, even now. The honor in his face. The fire of his touch. Giving him up—it would destroy me. I can’t live a life split at the seams, my love torn into pieces. I have only one path; I cannot choose two roads.
I open my eyes and look into Bear’s.
He is so close, like a blade at my breast, yet it’s agony not to give up and lean in. “I love him, Bear. I can’t stop loving him, no matter how long he’s gone or how much it hurts. I won’t give him up. It’s too late for us.”
“No.” He shakes his head and shuts out the truth. “It’s not too late. I’m not asking you to choose.”
“You are,” I say, accusing. “There is no just tonight. Just tonight will never be enough. What you’re asking me . . . you want me to cut my heart out, and give you the half that’s yours. Don’t you understand what that will do to us?”
He tries to back away, but I reach out and cradle his jaw. Fire curls in my chest; it burns the tears as they fall from my eyes. “I love you,” I choke, wide-eyed and desperate. I grip him hard, by the scruff of his collar. “Don’t you understand? I love you, but that love is tearing me apart.”
When our eyes lock, at last, I watch our always die. It slips from his sight. He stops fighting, he understands. I let go.
“I love—” he says, before stopping himself.
I stare back, unblinking. “Our love is another life.”
I leave the beacon in his hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE NEXT MORNING, I REPORT TO THE LAUNCH YARD FOR mission training. I’ve convinced myself Bear won’t be here. He’ll back out of the rescue mission and leave word with Hal.
I am wrong.
