Page 19

“Miller, report,” I demand into the microphone, keeping my tone flat.

Static hisses in my ear. “…pinned down! Southbound platform! Too many of the bastards⁠—”

Gunfire drowns out the rest of his sentence. Then I hear a new sound. A high-pitched vibration that sounds just like the sword Orien used on the Ghorvek.

“Duck, humans.”

Orien’s voice bleeds over the open comms channel. It doesn’t sound strained. It doesn’t sound panicked. He sounds like he’s ordering a drink at a rather loud bar. And it’s a good thing he shared those nanites with my soldiers, or they’d not be able to understand him at all.

A wet, tearing sound follows, accompanied by an ear-splitting shriek that spikes the audio levels into the red. Jenkins winces, tearing his headset off one ear.

“Hold the stairs!” Orien barks. The playful flirtation is completely gone. This is the fleet commander’s intelligence officer. This is a soldier. “Concentrate fire on the lower limbs!”

I stand frozen behind the console, my fingers pressing against the earpiece. I visualize the dark tunnels, the swarm of husks, the single streak of glowing orange cutting through the horror.

“Fall back! The tunnel is collapsing!” Miller screams.

A massive, concussive boom rattles the radio speakers. The sound of thousands of tons of concrete and earth giving way. A second explosion follows, deeper, rumbling through the frequency until it cuts off entirely.

Dead air.

White noise hisses through the headset.

“Jenkins.” My voice is a whip crack. “Re-establish contact.”

Jenkins frantically twists the dials on his console. “I’m trying, ma’am. The signal is buried. The explosion must have severed the repeater lines in the shaft.”

“Boost the gain. Switch to the secondary relays.”

“Nothing but static, Commander.”

I pull the headset off and drop it onto the metal desk. My chest feels tight. A cold, suffocating pressure builds behind my ribs.

He is just an asset. Or he could be a spy sent to uncover my secrets. He is definitely a complication I do not need.

I repeat the facts in my head, arranging them into a logical defense. But the logic fails against the sudden, sharp spike of fear in my chest.

He’s dead.

The tunnel collapsed. Avaren defenses seem formidable, but thousands of tons of London concrete will crush anything.

“Prep a rescue detail,” I order, my voice sounding somewhat hollow. “Heavy lifters. Excavation gear. Move.”

“Ma’am,” Jenkins interrupts, his hand pressing against his earpiece. “Surface perimeter sensors. Bay three. The Rover is returning.”

I exhale. It is a long, shuddering breath that I disguise by turning my back to the room.

I walk out of the comms hub and head straight for the vehicle bays. I do not run. Margaret Elmsleigh does not run. But my strides are long, my heels striking the concrete in a rapid rhythm.

The heavy steel blast doors of bay three groan as the hydraulics pull them apart. The smell hits me before the vehicle comes into view. The sharp tang of diesel exhaust, copper blood, and the foul stench of the infected husks.

The Rover rolls into the bay looking like it was chewed up and spat out—the reinforced windshield is shattered, the armored plating dented.

The side door kicks open, and Captain Miller stumbles out, his arm draped over the shoulder of another soldier. They are bloodied, covered in concrete dust, but breathing. Medics rush the vehicle, pulling two more wounded men from the back.

Then, Orien steps out of the driver’s side.

His armor is a mess, the formerly pristine matte-black surface coated in dust and blood. The visor covering his face disappears without a visible prompt from its wearer.