THEY JUST SILENTLY gawk. Probably judging my appearance or indulging in thoughts of sexual deviance. Dirty jackbags. All Robust men are the same—all of them except this one. My gaze drifts to the strange, stooping figure trying fruitlessly to hide near the back of the group. Something isn’t right about this guy.

“Why are you so late?” an ugly squat man shouts at me.

Without hesitation, I point directly at my badly bruised face. “Sorry, I lost track of time while having a little too much fun out on the town.”

“Don’t waste our time, woman.”

“You want to know the truth? How’s this? I took a job from a half-cocked, super-secret organization that didn’t give a professional enough time to do this job the way a professional does it. This resulted in me taking a dangerous shortcut, through a dangerous enclave, incurring unnecessary risk that almost got me killed—just so I could be ‘on time’ for a bunch of grubby resistance jackbags. That’s the truth, and if you don’t like it, fat boy, you can take this job and shove it directly up your fat—ˮ

“Everyone, everyone.” Yuri holds up his hands. “Please, let’s calm down. It’s been a long day for all of us, let’s not do anything rash.”

The ugly fat man’s face is verging on purple, his hand closed around the butt of an old wheel gun at his side.

“Markov, please.” Yuri motions for the fat man to take his hand off the gun. Markov continues to stare holes in me. Yuri moves his gaze to me. “Mila, are we okay?”

“Sure. We’re okay. But you should tell your people if they ask stupid questions, they might not like the answers they get. Respect is a two-way street, is it not?”

Markov takes a step back and removes his hand from his weapon.

Yuri nods. “It certainly is, Mila. It most certainly is. But let us get down to brass tacks, shall we? You’re late. Now you won’t be able to receive this information and transport it to Fiori in time. That was the deal—no?”

“I understand that was the deal. But this deal was force-fed to me from the start, Yuri. People with my skill set do not rush a job like this. Doing it the wrong way always creates problems like the ones we face now. You should have given me more time.”

“I’m sure you’re right, my dear, but unfortunately time is not a luxury we can afford.” He pauses just long enough to let the implication hang in the air. “Things are happening all around us, big things, as we speak. We all are but tiny players in this unfortunate game.”

What in creation is he talking about?

“Mila, time is of the essence. The resistance needs to move this information, and I need you to move it. Can you do that?” I open my mouth, but Yuri holds up a gloved hand. “A simple yes or no will suffice.”

“Yes.”

“Good, but first, for my superiors to trust you again, I must see a show of good faith. This job is of vital importance to our people. We need to know you will complete it. What can you offer me?”

It looks like I have to play that ace up my sleeve. “I can offer you information—something that will make your head spin.”

Yuri smirks. “By the hands of Yeos?”

“I shouldn’t have to swear by that—but yes.”

“Okay. Well, let’s have it.”

“No. First we talk details. I’d be an idiot to tell you what I know without striking a new deal first.”

Yuri folds his arms across his chest. “And?”

“My fee. It just tripled.”

The group murmurs.

Yuri doesn’t miss a beat. “Done. Anything else?”

“Yeah, on top of that, you’re going to give me another twelve hours to complete this job.”

More murmuring from the peanut gallery.

“I’ll take it myself in twelve hours and save us a lot of money,” Yuri retorts.

“No, you won’t. I can see it in your eyes. You know too well what a Ripper will do to a person.”

Yuri’s face hardens. “Six hours.”

“Ten.”

“Eight, and that’s my final offer. Any longer and I swear I’ll see it carried myself and you’ll be marked for death.”

There it is again. Marked for death. No thanks. “Okay. Triple the fee and give me eight hours and you have a deal.”

Yuri motions to a man standing in the back next to the hunched weirdo. The guy steps forward with a sealed package and hands it to Yuri, who accepts it and in turn steps forward, offering it to me with an extended arm.

“It’s a deal then—plus the information that will make my head spin.” I grab the package, but Yuri refuses to let it go. “Do not be late this time.” His eyes hold no humor. I snatch the package from his pincer grip and shove it in my bag.

“Get this. Guess who’s in cahoots—ˮ A strange electrical sensation prickles my skin. The hair on my arms stands on end. With an electrical snap the room is suddenly bathed in a blinding blue-white light. Frozen masks of shock and disbelief are cast on the faces of the men around me—all except Yuri, who has vanished.

“The Creed. Run,” one man screams.

“No,” Fat Markov shouts. “Don’t move. They’ve already got us iso’d.”

“They can’t have us iso’d already,” another yells back.

What is going on?

An eerily monotone voice booms over a loudspeaker. “You are hereby found to be participating in treasonous acts as defined by the authority of the benevolent Leader. This and other such acts will not be tolerated above or below the great nation of New Etyom. The penalty for your crimes is deconstruction.”

The group fragments, men rushing in all directions. Markov screams something unintelligible and fires his wheel gun, which flashes with an earsplitting crack—but it’s drowned out by a thunderous buzz from outside. A blue bolt arcs through the ancient glass windows, shattering them, and loops strangely, leaving wispy trails in the air behind it. The bolt hits the fat man with a thud and instantly separates his skin and fat from bone—flashing him into a fine gray powder that hangs in the air.

The fat man’s dust sticks to my clothes and hair as I fling myself in the opposite direction. More thunderous booms from outside as the engines of some great airship whine louder. The men around me scream and come apart in powdery clouds of their own, the twisting blue bolts tearing gaping holes through the old building and finding their mark again and again.

Blind and desperate to get out, I collide with a wall and stumble back. No. It’s no wall—it’s a man who feels like a wall. The hunched weirdo with the welding goggles—who, while looking like he’s going to wet his pants, has dropped the hunching act and is now standing straight as a board. And he’s huge. No Robust is that big. At least two meters tall, maybe two and a half. He’s got to be unbelievably jacked to look like that.

“Go.” My words disappear amid the chaos. Can’t hardly budge this guy. I grab his jacket and drop my center of gravity to pivot him around. “Move, you idiot. We’ve got to go, now.”

“I ... I just came for my ... I just need—” he stammers.

“You’re going to get me killed!” I scream, spittle flying against the dark glass of his goggles. No more words. I shove this weird guy forward, forcing him to gain momentum. Behind us, the small room comes apart under the impact of the concussive cannon fire.

“Cover your face.”

“What? Wait, wait,” he yells back over the din.

I exhale sharply as we head for the bank of windows before us. This big lug won’t jump on his own. Thrusting my weight forward, I twist, crashing through the glass back first, my heavy jacket protecting me from the jagged glistening teeth lining the ancient window. Dropping through the opening, all my weight on his arm is just enough to sway his balance. His large frame crashes through the remaining cloudy glass of the window, and together we fall screaming into the dark below.

The fall is short, not more than ten meters. We slam into a pile of garbage and pitch forward into the snow-covered alley. The strange guy is muttering to himself and shaking his head as he raises himself to his hands and knees.

Above us, a hulking airship covered in avalanche-pattern camouflage hovers in line with the upper floor of the crumbling factory. It bears the exact same color scheme that covered the advanced exoskeletons of the Leader’s bodyguards. The Creed. They must want the information I carry. The information Kapka couldn’t get and the Leader absolutely must have.

The engines visibly shift, the craft whining as it spins ninety degrees to face another bank of windows. Snow and ice fly in all directions. The massive cannon slung against the belly of the ship opens up again, slamming away with rapid flashes of blue light. More screams from inside the warehouse. I have to get out of here.

The begoggled moron appears even more bewildered than before.

“Come with me, or die here. Your choice.” Spinning on my toes, I tear away through the garbage-strewn alley.

As if directly tied to my movement, the monotone voice above responds. “Resistance fighters attempting to flee the target area. Acquiring lock on suspect location.”

“No way.” Cutting out of sight down a second trash-filled alley, I press my back to the wall. The weirdo rounds the corner and tucks in next to me.

“There’s no way they can track my movement.” I gulp air into my lungs.

“Yes, they can. We’ve been iso’d.” He’s not even out of breath, though he still looks like he’s going to vomit.

“Iso’d?”

“Isolated.” He swallows hard, glancing over his shoulder and back again nervously. “Their plasma weapons can isolate our genetic signatures and lock on to them. Like a heat-seeking missile.”

“A heat-seeking what?”

“A missile. It’s like a ... It can follow your movement.”

“Well, that’s just great. How are they doing that from all the way up there?”

“You’re shedding skin cells into the air all the—ˮ

“I don’t care about the science behind it, you giant idiot.”

“My name is Demitri.”

“Great, good for you.” I take off again, making for the next darkened intersection.

This side of Zopat is run-down and desolate. What was a shadowy blessing before has now become a curse. Here, there’s no swelling mass of people to disappear into, no businesses to enter and blend into, just street after darkened street. The huge freak has kept pace with me, but he’s in the middle of the street.

“Stick to the shadows. You’ll give us away,” I yell back, but he’s not listening. Instead he’s muttering to himself again, his brow furrowed.

My hands lock onto his tunic and attempt to shove him toward the safety of the shadows, with little success. “What’s wrong with you? C’mon.”

“Look, it’s no use. We can’t outrun the Creed,” he whimpers.

“Everyone can be outrun, you just have to know how to—ˮ My body hair stands on end once again. Another electric snap of blinding light as everything around me becomes daylight. “Outmaneuver them.”

The Creed strike ship whines overhead, searchlight swiveling.

“Robust human, do not make any sudden movements.”

“What do you want?” I call into the light, my voice drowned by the droning of the engines.

“The data package you have in your possession.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It has been visually identified in your possession. Step away from the rogue Gracile, lie on the ground, then throw the package a minimum of two meters away.”

Rogue Gracile? The petrified man at my side wrings his hands and chatters away under his breath. This guy? You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Please, just do it,” he says. “There’s no way out for us.”

“There’s always a way. As long as I’m holding it, they won’t shoot. They don’t want to risk damaging the information.”

“Oh stop it, you’re not helping us right now,” he shouts.

“I’m the only chance we’ve got, so how about you shut up and—ˮ

“No, not you. I ... just ...,” he stammers.

I raise a hand to silence him and turn back to the hovering ship. “Okay. I’m going to get the package now. But I have to reach into my bag to get it.”

“Get down on the ground first, Robust human. Move slowly.”

I motion for the weird guy to get down, then stoop into the plank position and lower myself to the cold, wet stone—keeping my hands in plain sight.

“Now retrieve the package and throw it forward. Do anything else and you will be immediately deconstructed,” the robotic voice commands.

How in Yeos’s great creation do I get myself into situations like this? “Okay, I’m going for it now.” I reach back into my satchel, my heartbeat pulsing in my ears. My hand touches the package, but glosses over it. That’s not it. Where is it? “Do something,” I call over my shoulder to the rogue Gracile. “Distract them.”

“I can’t.”

“We’re both going to be dead if you don’t. Tell them they got it wrong with you.”

This guy looks seriously distressed, but slowly he nods and starts to get up with his hands in the air.

“I’m sorry,” he calls out. “You’ve got me all wrong. I’m no Gracile.”

“You are,” the monotone voice booms. “You have been isolated and identified as—ˮ

“I’ve got it.” Closing my fingers around the cylindrical device, I slowly pull it from my bag so Demitri can see it.

“Oh no, don’t. That’s—”

“Isolate this.” I depress the big blue button on one end and heave the emergency device as far up the alley as possible.

Nothing happens.

Isolate this? That’s the best I could come up with? And now—nothing. I’m going to murder Gil with my bare hands if I survive this.

“Robust female identified as Mila Solokoff, your noncompliance has resulted in necessitating your personal deconstruction.”

The familiar crackle of a charging plasma cannon fills the air. This is it. I pinch my eyes shut and utter a simple prayer. But now there’s a rapid snapping—and it’s coming from the flashing strobe on my emergency button. The ship shudders, the engines faltering.

“Oh, Yeos, please.”

“You have been condemned to deconstr-brrrrr.” The loudspeaker breaks into a wash of static as the entire ship pitches forward and falls from the sky—right toward us.

I leap to my feet, grabbing the Gracile. “Sweet Moses. Are you completely useless? Run.” He stutters something unintelligible as I shove him to the side, and together we fall into a short stairwell off the alley, tumbling into a groaning heap at the bottom of the stairs.

The ship above us spins and then, smacking back and forth like a pinball off the ancient structures, crashes and rolls before finally grinding to a stop in a ball of fire at the end of the alley. The Gracile is all tangled up with me.

“Get. Off.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ... You pushed me and then—”

“Just shut up and get off.” I kick him away, scramble to the top of the stairs, and chance a peek at the burning ship. Inside, the Creed sit strapped into their seats, their mouths yawning wide as the flames engulf them.

“I can’t believe that worked.”

The Gracile rubs at his face in disbelief. “It shouldn’t have. Not with a weak-pulse, homemade piece of Robust junk like that. I ... I can’t believe you just destroyed a Creed ship. They’re going to ... They’re going to kill you for that.”

“Us. They’re going to kill us for that.”

“No. I played no part in it. I wasn’t even supposed to be mixed up in this down here.”

“You are a Gracile.”

“No, really, I’m just heavily modified.”

“Modified? You mean jacked? And you said, ‘down here.’ You’re a Gracile. You’re stooping for effect. Admit it.”

“No, I’m really not.”

“Look, I know you were probably told Robusts are all ignorant cave dwellers, but don’t insult my intelligence any further or I may save the Creed the trouble of killing you.”

He swallows, panic and indecision written across his face.

“Take off the goggles.”

Reluctantly he does, revealing large almond-shaped hazel eyes. They’re beautiful. Almost.

“I knew it. No Robust has eyes like that. I bet you’ve also got perfect skin and hair.”

“And teeth, and most everything else.” He hangs his head. “Not that it matters.”

Are all Graciles useless idiots who talk in riddles?

The Creed gunship creaks as flames engulf it, warping the metal panels. There’s no movement inside. My gaze returns to Demitri. He’s a Gracile. That means he can jack into this package and tell me what it is—not to mention his sheer size might come in handy.

“Why were you down here, Demitri the rogue Gracile?”

He gives me an awkward look and shakes his head, then glances away and mutters under his breath.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Sheepishly he swings his attention back to me. “I needed some DBS.”

“Krokodil? Why would a Gracile need krokodil?”

He turns away, ashamed. “I just needed to get more. I was desperate. When you attacked the theoretical physics lab on HAP Seven, my ... connection was injured. I had to come down myself.”

“The resistance has never had the ability to carry out an attack on a lillipad. They just resist you when you force our people into the mines to supply your endless energy needs, for ... whatever it is you do up there.”

Another confused look on his face. “We use solar energy.”

“Look, you’re getting off topic. You need some krokodil, and I need something from you—to analyze what’s on this data package. I need to know what your Leader is up to.”

“What are you talking about?” His eyes search mine.

The creak and crashing of melting metal rings in my ears. A Creed is pulling itself from the wreckage. Clearly the EMP didn’t fry everything. I grab the Gracile by the lapel of his jacket and pull him down until his gaze meets mine. “We’ve got to move. Now. We’ll get you your krokodil, and you’ll tell me what’s on this package. Deal?”

“But the Creed iso’d me. The Leader will know I’m here. I’ll be Ax’d.”

“Look, I took them out. They’re all wrecked. They can’t tell anyone anything. You understand?”

He’s quiet for a second, but nods. “Okay.”

“Good, now let’s get out of here and find somewhere to lie low. Follow me.”

And follow me he does, right on my heels, with a hurt look in his eyes like a lost little Gracile puppy dog. And in the midst of all the whirling thoughts, the fear, the doubt, and the fact that I’m now marked for death by just about everyone I can think of, there’s another feeling in my gut: I’ve become a part of something much bigger. And it’s a great and terrible feeling.