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OTHERS HAVE STARTED leaving their marks in the rubble this side of the protected city. Sometimes notched in trees or doors, on roadways, even the bottoms of hovers: two vertical lines, angled. A simple cavers’ mark that’s now a symbol for something greater. The stories are spreading too fast for the Congress to contain. People have stopped believing the lies. They are who they believe themselves to be—and nothing less.

This wall says SUB—like the person was stopped before they could finish. I spray paint from a can, finishing the rebel’s tag. SUBPAR. I stare at the word, thinking of our friends still trapped in Cordon Four.

“Nos sumus fortunati,” I whisper, touching the paint. We are the fortunate ones. Dram and I. But they are there—with those words on their sleeves.

“At least now they have hope, Orion,” Dram says. “They know it’s possible to break free.”

Maybe we can give them more. “Let’s go find your father.”

He hasn’t shown me the transmissions, but I know he’s watched them countless times. He studies my face, looking for holes in my resolve.

“The outlier regions are lawless,” he says. “Not even the Congress has maps for where he is.”

“Then we’ll make our own.” I hand the paint to Dram. “Marker.”

He grins and paints the lines. “Mark,” he says, like he’s just shot a light bolt into the stone.

We walk away, leaving behind a beacon.

Proof that there’s a way out.