30Thunder rolls across the sky in an endless rumble. Deep and low, it whispers along the treetops and echoes through the understory, an omnipresent force that seems to arise from everywhere and nowhere at once. Lightning flashes in the distance, and from off to the north, the wind picks up, whipping low through the trees in a sultry gust so hot it makes my flesh tingle and my bones wither within their sockets. Though it’s only late afternoon, the jungle around me is strangely quiet, all the usual shrieks and songs unnaturally subdued, as though even the creatures of the forest know:

This is no ordinary storm.

Reaching the trees at the edge of our destination, I stop as another flash of light flickers through the shifting leaves of the canopy, illuminating the darkening sky for one vivid moment before fading into nothingness once more. Electricity crackles across my skin, and all the little hairs on my arms stand up. I watch the clouds, water-laden and dark, hanging heavily across the storm-tossed sky, and frown. The flashes have been coming on and off all day, accompanied by an ever-present rumble rolling through the trees.

Thunder and lightning, and yet no rain.

A low rustling crackles in the brush beside me. I watch the sky for a few more seconds, then without turning my head, I quietly speak. “You ever seen weather like this before?”

Silence follows my question, punctuated only by another long, slow roll of thunder grinding across the sky. When no answer is forthcoming, I shoot a glance over at Vida. Her face is raised to the sky, and in the dim illumination, something about her usually defiant profile now seems apprehensive, almost fearful even. Another bolt of lightning flashes, closer this time, and a flicker of trepidation flits across her face.

“Well?”

A beat passes, and then she shakes her head. “No. Not like this.”

For a moment, it looks like she might elaborate, but she says nothing, leaving me to contemplate alone the unnaturalness of a lightning storm without rain on a world where it routinely rains but never storms. On impulse, I activate my chit and check the temperature.

Eighty-eight point six degrees.

Another impossibility, manifested as it is on a planet that always remains between precisely eighty-two and eighty-six degrees, its very temperature—like the lightning-less rains—programmed into the code of Iolanthe herself and maintained by a terraforming system that never stops running, quietly unseen, in the background of our lives. It has to keep running, for as the scientists learned long ago, every terraformed planet secretly cherishes a deep desire to return to her natural state, to break the bonds human life has forced upon her and revert back to what she was before that fateful day when we came sailing through the vacuum of space to lay claim to her distant soils.

From out of the corner of my eye, I catch Vida’s sidelong glance at my palm and say, unnecessarily, “Temperature’s rising.”

“I know.”

Of course she does. Native that she is, she probably noticed the moment the mercury hit eighty-six point one.

My mind flicks to the downed weather equalizer we found all those days ago. “Is it possible someone—the enemy—is messing with the terraforming system?”

“Anything is possible.”

“But you don’t think so.” Not a question.

“No, not in the way you think.”

“Then what?”

Vida’s eyes flick up as more lightning flashes in the gaps between the trees. Another roll of thunder begins, rumbling deep and low in its belly before wending its way darkly across the sky, and from way off in the jungle comes a piercing howl. Vida cocks her head slightly, as if listening for something specific in that wordless cry, and then, ever so slowly, her eyes swivel around to me.

“I think Iolanthe is angry.”

As if on cue, a fork of lightning blazes across the darkening sky. An involuntary shudder ripples through me. Could Vida be right? On the surface of things, it seems ludicrous that a planet, even one as alive as Iolanthe, could harbor such passions, let alone use them to openly defy seventy years’ worth of programming, and yet I can’t deny the evidence before my eyes. The rising temperature and the rainless storm are only the tip of the iceberg. For some time now, the balance of life has been shifting on Iolanthe. While once Terran flora and fauna dominated the land, over the past several weeks, native Iolanthian life has been appearing throughout the jungle with more and more frequency. Parakeets and macaws have been giving way to auries and twitterwills, and instead of spider monkeys and capuchins, it’s feather-wights and brindlers I spot swinging through the trees most often.

An image of a laurel tree I saw cut down by razor vines a few days ago springs to mind, and I shake my head. Even the plants seem to be locked in a pitched battle for dominance, and for the first time since my arrival on this planet, it looks like the native flora may be starting to come out on top. Is Iolanthe’s sudden surge simply the result of a random hiccup in the terraforming system, or has she somehow sensed the alien presence invading her shores and is now, in her own way, revolting against it?

Turning away from the roiling sky, I stroll back to the others, glancing over each one as I go. Kieran, Hegit, and Ri. Trey and Xylla. Jovan, Zane, and Vida. The best of the best. I chose this group of eight for their speed and fitness, and so far they’re living up to their potential . . . physically, at least. Mentally, it’s clear they’re on edge, and that I’m not the only one with solar-flits in my stomach about our upcoming mission. Zane seems particularly anxious, constantly tilting his face to the sky and flinching every time another lightning bolt appears. His scarred right hand compulsively opens and closes with each flash.

On impulse, I call out to him. “Zane.”

He flinches, though he doesn’t actually seem to hear me. I try again.

“Zane! You sat?”

His gaze darts over to mine, wide-eyed and alarmed. I repeat the question, and after a short hesitation, he nods stiffly. I raise one eyebrow in a clear sign of disbelief, and only then does he reluctantly admit, “I—I don’t like l-lightning very much.”

I hold up my hand and tap my chit reassuringly. “I’ve used the topographical surveys to chart the most likely places for lightning strikes and plotted our course accordingly. We should be okay.”

Zane looks unconvinced, but before I can say more, Jovan steps apart from the group. He eyes all of us suspiciously. “What’s taking so long?”

My gaze inadvertently goes to Vida, a nod to our recent exchange, but all I say is, “Nothing. Let’s go.”

With a few terse words, I lead the others out from the cover of the trees and into the open air toward our destination: the northwestern terraforming bunker. Not that the bunker itself is our target. Unlike the abandoned bunker where we fled after the invasion, this one has a new, high-tech lock on the access hatch. We’re no more getting in there than the spaceport bunker. No, what we’re here for isn’t inside the bunker, but on top of it.

Solar panels.

Set into the landing pad, gleaming plates of solar cells glint in the waning light, row upon row radiating out from the center hatch in ever-widening circles. Automated and self-cleaning, they operate almost completely without human intervention and are capable of running indefinitely with surprisingly little loss of function. Only the enviro-shield around the pad must be maintained regularly to keep the forest from overwhelming them—something the squatters seem to have done, judging by how stable the shield looks.

I glance at the shield generators, more relics of early colonization, and snort. Maybe it was the bunker’s location, buried out in the woods as it is, or perhaps its function as a dormitory, but apparently TruCon never saw the need to replace the generators with new tech. I quietly laugh. Their mistake. Hegit hacks them in a trice.

My heart quickens as I lead the group onto the platform, and a slight shiver slithers down my spine. Up until now, all of our offensives have been subtle affairs, as much about keeping our presence a secret as they were about hurting the enemy. The targets we hit were specifically chosen for their outlying positions and our ability to make our work appear to be accidents or malfunctions. Though those targets were of lesser importance, they were also relatively safe.

We did what we could as silent saboteurs, but now it’s time to step up our game. It’s time to make an impact.

Literally.

Tossing my travel pack to the ground beside me, I pull out the triluminum riot baton hidden inside. I unscrew the midsection and slowly telescope the short rod out to its full length, nearly a meter long. Grasping the baton in both hands, I twirl the stick around experimentally, enjoying the weight, the heft of the weapon in my hands. There’s something about the heavy metal that feels solid, strong. Indestructible.

A jolt of adrenaline shoots through my veins. For weeks now, we’ve been engaged in a campaign of silent subterfuge, our every move clipped and curtailed by a need for secrecy that has only become more maddening with every day that passes. Now the time has come to step into the light, to prove our existence to the enemy beyond the shadow of a doubt. I should be scared—once we embark on this path, there’s no going back—and yet all I feel is a restless hunger stirring deep in my gut. An avid anticipation almost intoxicating in its fervent demand for action, and one that I have no intention of denying.

All it takes is a few quick commands, and then everyone is running out onto the landing pad, dispersing among the panels with their own motley collection of sticks, batons, and bats. I take my place in the center row and stare down the gleaming sheet of solar glass before me. Shifting my eyes left and then right, I make one final check of the area. Everyone is in place, silently awaiting my signal to act. My eyes flash in anticipation. Best not to keep them waiting.

Twirling the heavy baton around one last time, I grip it hard with both hands, lift it high over my shoulder, and then swing it toward the platform with all my might.

Screaash!

Glass flies in every direction as I hit the solar panel with enough force to send shock waves racing up my arms. Whirling the baton up and around, I bring it back down once, twice, three times, smashing the glass again and again with arm-numbing strikes. The broken cells crunch and crackle under my feet, a melodious counterpoint to the shattering glass as I alternately strike with my stick and stomp with my boots. On all sides of me, the others take up the call, each bringing their own weapons to bear in a symphony of destruction that writhes and bleeds through the crystalline air.

Finishing off the first set of panels, I move on to the next, and then the next, and then the one after that, whaling away at the cells with reckless abandon. Elation surges within me, a razor-edged joy like that of a cutter slicing into their own flesh, electrifying and terrifying at once, and still I keep bringing that baton down again and again, never still, never stopping, so enraptured by the breaking glass that I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to, and I don’t. I don’t want this wild, raging, glorious destruction to end! My inhibitions are gone, any restraint I once held now shattered as surely as the panels beneath my feet, and for the first time in my life, I feel free. Unhampered by duty and unfettered by fate, I can finally be myself in a way I never have before. It’s completely exhilarating. More than that—

Intoxicating.

All caution tossed to the wind, I throw back my head and laugh. Liquid silver pours from my throat, spilling out across the platform in wild giggles that can neither be contained nor controlled. My whole body thrums with exultation, aroused by the heady combination of danger and destruction, and through it all I just keep smashing and smashing while the suns sink down over the Iolanthian tree line and all of my sins scatter like stars through the ravening sky.