12Pandemonium breaks out as more streams of silver shoot across the sky and what is obvious to me becomes obvious to everyone else. Gasps and murmurs break out, punctuated by flustered cries of “They’re here! They’re here!” as those already up go for those still asleep, shaking them awake with panicked shoves and shrill injunctions.

I ignore the tumult behind me, all attention focused on getting my sat-link up and connecting to one of those voices in the sky. My fingers waltz through the air, manually activating my transmitting capabilities, while on Iolanthe’s public channels, the same message plays over and over again:

“Citizens of Iolanthe: Do not be alarmed. This is the CE Naval Strike Force Zeta Three. We are here to help you. Please remain calm and wait for further instructions.” A pause, then—“Citizens of Iolanthe: Do not be alar—”

The voice cuts off as I abruptly quell the feed. It’s clearly an automated message set to a continuous loop. I need a real person, not a recording.

I comb through a number of possible frequencies and finally set my chit to transmit on one of the universal distress channels. If the Navy has even a single communications officer worth their salt, they should be able to hear me. Shushing the others with a wave of my hand, I activate my transceiver, take a deep breath, and speak.

“CE Naval Strike Force Zeta Three, this is Teal Sorenson down in the Rainforest on Iolanthe with a group of refugees ready for evacuation. We require immediate pickup. Over.”

I wait with bated breath for a reply, foot tapping impatiently on the soft ground as I wonder just how long I should give them to respond. Students crowd around me, for once completely silent as they listen for the words that will save our lives. Seconds tick by, stretching into minutes, but nothing comes back. Thumbing my chit, I try again.

“CE Naval Strike Force Zeta Three, this is Teal Sorenson down in the Rainforest on Iolanthe with a group of refugees ready for evacuation. We require immediate pickup. Do you copy?”

My voice cracks slightly on the last word, and I swallow quickly, hoping no one noticed. The wait is almost unbearable, every miserable second we’ve spent fleeing from the Spectres and getting harassed by the forest all coming down to this one moment. I stare at my sat-link, terrified that maybe it’s not working or that it doesn’t have the range I need, but the six little lights around the disc are all glowing blue. As far as I can tell, it’s working. The Navy just isn’t answering.

I flip through a few more channels and try again, striving to keep my voice level and my hands steady, but it’s clear I’m not the only one getting anxious. Fidgets, whispers, and nervous looks pass between the others, and I know they’re wondering if this trek into the jungle has all been for nothing. If they cast their lot in with me—I, who promised salvation—only to be led into a dead end with enemies chomping at our heels and nowhere left to go. For a moment, I can’t help wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake, then—

“Teal Sorenson, this is Echo Pilot Eagle Nine with the CE Naval Strike Force Zeta Three. I’ve received your message. Over.”

My heart leaps at the sound of my name, and I fumble to reply. “Echo Pilot, it’s good to hear your voice. I’m here with a group of thirty-five students from Sheridan’s Academy. We escaped the invasion, but we have no way to get off the planet. We need pickup immediately.”

“Thirty-five students?” His tone is incredulous, though I’m not sure if it’s our number or the fact that we’re students that’s floored him. Or maybe he just wasn’t expecting to receive a phone call out of the blue from a bunch of survivors in the woods.

“That’s correct,” I confirm. “Can you help us?”

“Negative. I’m not set up for passengers. Let me speak to my superior. Please stay on this channel. Eagle Nine out.”

His voice cuts off, and everyone starts talking at once, their voices a blend of trepidation and excitement. For my part, I mostly feel relief. We got ourselves to the landing platform, and we’ve made contact. The hard part is over. Now we just have to wait for them to find an available evac shuttle to send down to us. I stay on the channel as instructed and put my chit volume on max to compensate for the extra noise. When my transceiver finally speaks again, a new voice is on the line.

“Teal Sorenson, this is Commander Milo Gupta of the CES Liberation, currently in orbit around Iolanthe. Please respond.”

“Commander Gupta, this is Teal Sorenson. Please tell me you’ve got an evacuation shuttle on the way.”

“That may be a problem, Ms. Sorenson,” replies the voice—a man’s voice, but deeper than the pilot’s. “Our sources show that the enemy has infiltrated every inhabited sector on Iolanthe. Anyone who isn’t already infected will be the moment we try to make an evac.”

Though he doesn’t explicitly say it, I know what he must be thinking: that there’s no way we could have avoided infection. He thinks we’re squatters, or as good as, and the last thing he wants to do is send his soldiers down on a suicide mission.

“Negative, Commander,” I hasten to assure him. “We’re not in the settlements. We’re in the Rainforest.”

A long pause. “I’m sorry, I didn’t read you. Say again, Ms. Sorenson?”

“I repeat: We’re not in the settlements. When the Spectres attacked, we fled into the Rainforest to avoid the invasion. We’re currently located at an old terraforming bunker several klicks into the jungle. There’s a landing pad here with enough airspace to accommodate a shuttle.”

“Send me your coordinates,” Gupta says after another long pause.

I do as he bids, firing off the GPS coordinates I took the first time I was out here. Again, I wait, then—

“Your coordinates have been received. Please stay on this channel while I consult with my Guard commander. Liberation out.”

I let out an exasperated sigh at being put on hold again. My eyes go back to the sky as I wait, watching as more ships zoom across the clouds above. Both Ava and Eva have risen since our initial contact, and now their sharp rays polish the ships to a high shine, making their somber carapaces glint and gleam like bits of silver in the deepening blue. Though I can’t see it, I have a pretty good idea of what those ships are doing. They’re prepping the planetary net, seeding hundreds of self-sustaining shield generators into the atmosphere. Once activated, they’ll create a network of energy across the sky that will block all incoming and outgoing objects. In other words: No one gets in.

No one gets out.

A frisson of fear runs down my spine, though I’m not entirely sure why. The planetary net is basic protocol. When a ghoul takes a host to become a squatter, they can breed a new ghoul within a matter of weeks and keep on breeding for as long as the host should live. Once a colony has been invaded, the planet must be quarantined in order to keep the squatters from getting out and spreading more ghouls across the Expanse. Hence the planetary net. Those ships up there aren’t doing anything they wouldn’t do for any other colony in Iolanthe’s situation. The knowledge doesn’t make me feel any less anxious, though. The only thing that will do that is a shuttle landing on this platform and getting me the hell off this rock.

As if reading my mind, my chit springs back to life. “Ms. Sorenson, this is Commander Gupta. Do you read me?”

“I’m here, Commander.”

“Good. We’re sending a light cargo shuttle your way. Please make sure you’re at the coordinates provided within the next ten minutes. Bring only what you can carry. Gupta out.”

Chaos ensues, cheers, whoops, and howls breaking out at the news. Hugs and high fives are exchanged all around, along with any number of fist bumps and backslaps. One of the guys calls out, “Way to go, Teal!” a sentiment quickly seconded by several others. Then the crowd breaks, and we’re all scrambling for our things, some hastily shoving stuff into backpacks and messenger bags while others cram on hats and shoes. Vida’s voice rings out over the shuffle, indiscriminately hurrying everyone along, and for once I don’t mind her strident commands.

I shake off a tiny three-clawed toad that decided to make a home on my hat while I was away, then swing my backpack over my shoulders and tie my jacket around my waist. Beside me, Zane’s already good to go, and Mario’s slinging her purse over her shoulder. Together, the three of us jog onto the platform, far enough in that we can be spotted from the air but not so far as to block a landing. We’re swiftly joined by the others, all eyes glued to the sky in breathless anticipation. Everything inside me is exulting, They’re here! They’re here!

And then, they are.

The ship comes dropping down over the treetops like a spider plummeting from a web. Sunlight streams off its carapace, highlighting the brilliant gold trim limning the glossy black hull, and even without the designation along its side, I would know it for a naval ship anywhere. It slips through the hole in the canopy, so close it clips the crown of a mighty kapok to send a shower of leaves swirling down across the other side of the platform, and there it remains, hovering in the entrance to our little landing pad high above. A voice comes across my open com.

“This is Lieutenant Erisi of the CES StarTamer. Please stand back and prepare for pickup.”

I acknowledge the order and step back with the others. Heart in my throat, I watch as the StarTamer carefully begins descending down to the landing pad. While the platform itself is mostly clear of vegetation, the same can’t be said for the airspace above it. Trees lean out over the pad, their branches weaving through the air in a latticelike tangle that’s only thickened by leaves and vines and other growth. Despite the pilot’s care, more flora falls as the ship continues its descent through the trees, but still it comes—down and down, from the emergent layer through the canopy and finally into the understory itself. The shuttle is perhaps ten meters from the pad when suddenly—

It stops.

Thirty seconds pass, then a minute, and still it continues to hover, neither ascending nor descending but simply . . . waiting.

A bad feeling blooms in the pit of my stomach. I glance to the left, and then the right, assuring myself that everyone is out of the way, and yet still the ship doesn’t descend. Something is wrong. The ship was dispatched by command, located the pad, and has now successfully maneuvered through the canopy.

So what could they possibly be waiting for?

Ignoring the first touches of panic churning in my gut, I thumb my transceiver. “CES StarTamer! This is Teal Sorenson with the survivors on the ground. We’re ready for pickup. Do you read?” I wait for a response.

Nothing.

My dread only deepens as the com stays silent, and still the ship waits, looming over us like a great predator about to spring. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart by running through several possible reasons for the delay, but even I know my rationales are more platitude than logic. Beside me, the other students are getting nervous, murmurs skittering through the group as everyone tries to figure out what the holdup is.

“This is Teal Sorenson,” I try again, “calling Lieutenant Erisi or anyone on the StarTamer. We’ve complied with your instructions and are still awaiting pick—”

“Negative,” comes Erisi’s sudden reply, crackling through my chit. “We’ve received new orders. We can’t complete the evacuation.”

“New orders? What—”

Before I can finish the question, the ship’s thrusters ignite, and the StarTamer shoots up through the canopy. Vegetation rains down, leaves and even whole branches falling as it ascends with far less care than it originally descended. We watch it go, pure shock freezing us all in place for one terrible moment . . . then anarchy erupts! Students rush out onto the platform, shouting, waving their arms, screaming for the ship to come back, and even I’m yelling into my chit now—“Wait! Where are you going? Is someone coming back for us?!”—but the shuttle doesn’t so much as pause, flying out through the break in the topmost layer of the trees with a final push of its thrusters. Only then does my chit crackle to life one more time. To my surprise, it’s not the voice of Lieutenant Erisi but Commander Gupta that comes across the line. He speaks just two words:

“I’m sorry.”

Then the ship is gone, disappearing into the sky in a streak of black and gold.

Panic seizes me. No! No, no, no, no, no! This isn’t how it was supposed to happen! This isn’t how it was meant to be!

Hand to my mouth, I scream into my chit, calling for anyone up there who might pick us up or at least tell us what’s going on, but the airwaves stay menacingly silent. Still, I continue to try, flipping between com channels, calling for Gupta, Erisi, even the Echo pilot who originally answered my hail, babbling into my chit until my throat is raw and my voice goes hoarse. Zane taps my shoulder a few times, his voice low and gentle in my ear, but I shake him off, refusing to listen, refusing to give up. That they would come so close only to leave us is a scenario that simply won’t compute, no matter that I saw it with my own eyes. It’s only when I start coughing, my dry throat forcing me into silence, that I finally stop. Zane wordlessly holds out his water bottle, and numbly, I take it.

“Teal—”

“They’re still up there,” I interrupt, the short gulp enough to restore my voice, at least temporarily. “We just have to keep trying! If we keep calling—”

“Teal,” Zane tries again, and I shake my head at him, hard. I won’t hear it! I won’t be told to back down or take a break or whatever defeatist bullslag he thinks to tell me! Reactivating my transmitter, I’m about to start linking again when something bright flashes high up in the sky.

The shuttle!

I drop my hand, neck craning upward, and my heart stops. Streaks of energy are zigzagging across the sky, bursting through the clouds in a sizzling latticework of electric blue. I watch that sapphire energy jump from generator to generator, closing in around us like an old-fashioned noose, and any hope I had of the shuttle coming back for us evaporates in the blink of an eye. The Navy has dropped the planetary net. They’ve quarantined Iolanthe—

With us still on it.