STANDING AT ONE OF the thermal vents, I look straight down a seemingly bottomless hole. Next to it, a dust-covered bag lies against the wall. I approach apprehensively, noting the blackened scars that streak down the wall toward the opening of the vent.

I stoop, pinch the edge of the small crumpled satchel, and give it a little shake to clear the dust. I know this bag. I’ve seen it before.

“What is it?” Bilgi asks from over my shoulder.

“I, uh ... I don’t know yet. I ... I’ve seen this bag before.”

“You don’t remember where?”

“Give me a second.” I wave him off.

The others gather around.

“What is it?” says one.

“What did she find?” asks another.

“Just wait. Hold on. Give us some space,” Bilgi says. “Have another look. See if there’s anything inside.”

Crouched close to the floor, I lift back the flap to expose an interior pocket. And there it is, scrawled onto the underside of the fold: Zevry Solokoff.

“Zev,” I whisper, drawing the bag closer. He was carrying it when he left for the mines.

“Who?”

“Her brother,” Bilgi answers. “Give her a moment.”

Faruq stands close but says nothing. Demitri is close as well, his large shadow looming over me. Pulling the bag open, I look inside. The satchel is completely empty.

“Nothing?” Bilgi asks.

“I don’t understand. Why is his satchel here?”

“Mila,” Demitri says, his voice soft. “Those are plasma burns.” He points to scorch marks along the thermal vent.

“That’s what I was thinking—from a Creed’s energy rifle?”

“Yes. From the look of the bag against the wall, it was dropped, or thrown there,” Demitri continues.

“Are you saying the Creed were shooting at my brother?”

“If I had to guess? Yes.”

The Gracile looks nervous.

“But why would he be running toward the vent?” I say.

“Mila, check the bag one more time,” Bilgi says. “Are you absolutely sure there’s nothing in it? Why would he throw it down?”

Turning the bag upside down, I give it a shake. “I don’t know. I can’t—ˮ

A piece of paper flutters to the ground. My breath held, I scoop up the faded sliver of paper and unfold it. The writing is rough, scratched out with a piece of sharpened coal. I can barely make out the words, but I read them aloud.

They almost caught me trying to sabotage the device this time. The Graciles’ robot slaves are relentless. Day and night they force us to work without sleep and with just enough rations to keep us alive. I can feel my strength failing. I don’t know much about what we’re building for them, but I know in my heart it’s a work of evil. The Graciles will never let us escape this prison. Just as our ancestors died in the gulags—so shall I. I must use what energy I have left to stop it. If I can steal a critical part and destroy it somehow, I must. This device cannot be activated. For all we know it could open the door to the pit of Hell itself and release unspeakable damnations. I will try again tonight. May Yeos guide my hand. ~ Zevry Solokoff

I’m holding the final words of my brother. He died trying to stop the madness of the Leader. He died trying to do something that mattered. That’s why he never came home. I clutch the letter close to my chest. Speak to me, brother. Tell me what I must do.

“He must have stolen some piece of the machine and then flung himself into the vent,” Faruq says.

“While the Creed were trying to shoot him down for it,” adds Bilgi. “Your brother was a hero, Mila. He did what he knew was right—he risked his own life to stop this madness.”

My brother was enslaved by the Graciles and forced to work on their doomsday device. He would have come home to me if he could have. After all this time, this small bit of knowledge is more than I could have ever hoped for.

“Mila, are you okay?” Faruq asks.

“Yes.” I swallow the stone in my throat, drop the old bag on the ground, and stuff my brother’s note into one of my pockets. “I am. I’m better than I’ve been in a long time. It’s time for us to confront our oppressor. It’s time for the Leader to hear our cries—every single one of us.”

Gathering together, we press farther into the tunnels. The scouts tell me we’re going in the right direction, but there’s no way for me to know for sure. We shuffle along, unsure of each step in the darkness. The tunnel gently slopes upward. Perhaps we’re headed out of this forsaken graveyard.

Faruq steps up alongside me, Husniya tucked beneath his arm. “Do you think we are close to this launch site?” he asks.

“I think we’re closer, yes. Hopefully this tunnel will take us there.”

My friend eyes me.

“What? Don’t look at me like that.”

He just smiles. “I wish you could see yourself the way others see you.” He turns and motions to the throngs of resistance fighters walking the tunnels behind us. “The way all of them look at you.”

“Stop it. That’s not funny.”

“I’m not being funny,” Faruq says. “You’ve come a long way, my friend. And these people have chosen this fight because they believe in the cause and they believe in their leaders.”

Time to change the subject. “You don’t have to come with us. You have your sister now. You can always go home.”

“Home? To what? Continue living in oppression under the heavy boot of a madman like Kapka? No, I can’t. I won’t subject my sister to that.”

“Then, go live somewhere else.”

“With this?” Faruq holds up his hand to reveal the large B scarred into the flesh. “No, Mila. I made you a promise.”

“I relieve you of your obligation.” Don’t look him in the eyes.

“It’s not just the obligation. It’s a commitment to a friend. I will stand with you in this. That is my final word.”

Highly unusual, and yet as predictable as the rising of the sun, this man. I shake my head and offer a small smile. “Very well, Faruq.”

“Then it is settled.” Faruq grins.

“What will I do, Faruq?” Husniya says from under his arm.

“My dear sister, I will not put you in danger again. You will stay with Bilgi this time. They will protect you until we return.”

“But I want to go with you.”

“No, no, that is not possible. It is far too dangerous.”

“But what about you? You could get hurt.” The little girl clings to the side of her big brother.

“Mila will protect me.” He winks at me.

My fingertips gently touch my brother’s note in my pocket. I understand what little Husniya is feeling all too well. I pat her on the back and stoop just a little. “I’ll try to look after this dummy for you.”

Husniya gives a sheepish smile.

A squall of static erupts from Denni’s heavy backpack radio system. “We’re picking something up. We must be closer to the surface than we think.”

Everyone halts and waits with labored breathing as she fiddles with various knobs. The noise begins to resolve into voices.

“What is it, Denni?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. Give me a second.” She pulls off the backpack and sets it on the ground. Immediately the radio goes silent.

“What happened?”

“I lost it.”

“Get it back up. Get it back up. Mos, can you get that pack in the air?”

“I got it.” Mos grabs the pack and heaves it into the air. Voices gush forth in the darkness.

“The primary asset is go. All systems nominal. En route to designation X-Ray. What is your status? Over.”

“Copy primary asset is en route. Be advised, X-Ray is under siege from multiple Robust factions. Perimeter is intact. Asset will be secure upon arrival, but expect heavy engagement, over.”

“Copy X-Ray is under siege. Asset advises we continue the extraction as planned. Over.”

“Copy. X-Ray command over and out.”

The transmission stops abruptly. Mos lowers the pack with a bewildered look on his face.

“What was all that?” Faruq asks.

“Creed transmission. It’s all coded. They’ve been programmed to use old military terminology to conceal their messages,” Denni says.

“What do you think of the message?” I ask.

“Well,” starts Denni. “It seems pretty straightforward. The primary asset is the Leader. X-Ray has got to be the launchpad. The Leader is already headed there now.”

“Yes.” Bilgi nods. “That’s right. We’ve heard references to the primary asset in previous transmissions we picked up back in headquarters. It’s definitely the Leader.”

“That means we’ve got to get moving, right?” I ask.

“This mission is supposed to be a surprise attempt to destroy this rocket?” Demitri asks from the back.

“Yeah, why?” What’s his point?

He shuffles on the spot, tapping his forehead again. “The last part of their transmission, they said X-Ray was under siege.”

My skin crawls. “Rippers?”

Demitri nods. “They must have kept the rocket concealed below in the mines. I saw a launchpad, not a rocket. The raising of it must have drawn a lot of attention.”

“Radicals as well.” Faruq nods. “Kapka is in a frenzy. If he got word the Graciles are raising a rocket to the surface, he likely thinks it’s a weapon. He’d try to possess it. If he couldn’t, he would try to destroy it.”

“Shouldn’t we just let him do that?” a scout says.

“Yeah, why should we risk our lives if that maniac will destroy it for us?” another man calls out.

“No. Hold on.” I wave my hands for everyone to calm down. “We can’t do that. We can’t risk Kapka gaining the rocket intact. Who knows what he’d try to do with it. No, the mission stands. We’ve just got a few more hurdles to leap now.”

An ethereal shriek echoes through the tunnel ahead.

“Everyone quiet. Douse the torches,” I call out.

We stand in silence, waiting.

Then we hear it again, a low groan farther up the tunnel in the direction we’re headed.

Bilgi makes his way to me. “Speaking of hurdles, what was that?”

“Sounded like there’s someone up ahead.”

“It didn’t sound much like a person,” Bilgi replies. “Take a small group. No torches. The more noise you make, the more of them you’ll attract.”

“Faruq, Mos. You two come with me.”

As slowly as possible, we make our way up the tunnel. As the slope gradually grows steeper, a faint light gets stronger. The air is colder here. In the dark, a wall and an unstable wooden ledge jut upward. I can hear him now—incoherent groans and mutterings reaching out to us in the gloom.

The smell of death hits me. The odor is overpowering, a putrid stench of funk, feces, and old bloodstained garments. I tap Mos on the shoulder and draw him in close. “It’s a Ripper. There may be more. Watch my back.”

“I got ya,” Mos replies.

Crawling my way slowly up over the rim of the ledge, the Ripper comes into view. Backlit by the exit to the tunnels, the feral man sits alone, grunting and stripping raw meat from a broken bone with his black teeth. His eating is both disgusting and mesmerizing. He looks up at me, and I freeze.

The fiend snarls. I lunge forward and strike him hard across the face. I sink into an unrelenting chokehold. Struggling in the dimness, we fall against the tunnel wall. The struggle draws another Ripper into the tunnel. Damnation. I can’t let this one go. The other one comes at me screaming, his primitive weapon raised.

I clamp down on the one in my arms. Go to sleep already.

A shadow streaks down the far wall.

Mos crashes into the incoming Ripper, the force so strong the Ripper’s head snaps back and his legs fly out from under him. Mos grabs the Ripper in midair and jams him violently against the ceiling of the tunnel, then slams him headfirst against the floor, rendering him unconscious.

The Ripper still in my arms grows weak, slapping at my elbow. He gurgles a final time, then drops unconscious. I let him slump to the ground.

“Mos, you okay?” I rub my jacket over and over. I can’t get this stink off me.

“I’m okay. The way they smell, I didn’t want to get too up close and personal,” Mos says. “Faruq, can you come and tie up the one Mila had?”

“I’m coming up now.”

Desperate to distance myself from the stench, I trudge toward the inviting cold draft coming from the mouth of the tunnel. Between us and the frozen outside world, a heavy steel door hangs off its hinges. Concussions pop and thud in the distance, followed by screams of pain and terror. What in all of creation is going on?

As I make my way to the wind-blasted opening, waves of sick anticipation pulse with the sounds of war beyond. I pray to Yeos it won’t be the nightmare I’ve dreamed over and over—but it is. I recognize every rock, every snowflake, and every body lying in the blood-spattered snow.

“Guys.” My tongue’s heavy like a shank of lead. “Get everyone up here. You’re going to want to see this.”

* * *

STRETCHING FROM THE mouth of the tunnel is a vast mining complex, ancient and abandoned. Inside are tiers of sleek, sterile fortifications of Gracile design. A thirty-foot-high plasma shield encircles the entire site. And there in the center, deep within the mining pit, sits a rocket of some kind, its nose peeking over the edge of the rock. A deep rumble, perhaps its engines, can be heard even from here. A suspension bridge connects the rim of the pit to a loading platform level with the fore section of the rocket.

Outside the walls, an army of Rippers scream, challenging and testing the force field. One of them grows overzealous, runs screaming into the barrier, and flashes into a fine gray powder, sending the others into further frenzy.

Toward the other side of the complex, another force gathers. Kapka’s fanatics, hell-bent on gaining access to the launchpad and the rocket itself, launch a barrage of antique munitions. Bullets fly. Grenades cross over the top of the shield and explode inside the fortifications.

Strange music plays over a loudspeaker, and a voice repeats the same words over and over: “This is the will of Ilāh. We will strike at the dark hearts of the infidel, and we will restore the Musul people to their rightful place. You will be shown no mercy, for Hell awaits the foes of the chosen. We are destined for paradise.”

Along the perimeter the two armies mix in isolated skirmishes. A swarmed Musul detonates himself amid a pile of Rippers. A lone Ripper charges into the ranks of the Musuls, cutting and killing before being struck down. Though the two groups seem to be more focused on finding a way inside the barrier than on killing each other.

Inside the shield, ranks of emotionless Creed soldiers stand ready to defend the rocket, their sterile, avalanche-pattern exoskeletons poised with plasma rifles raised. If that shield were impenetrable, why would the Creed be standing ready? They wouldn’t be. That means they’re worried about the shield coming down—but how?

“Ghofaun, do you copy?” Denni says over her radio.

The sound of static greets us.

“How far of a range do you have?” I ask, motioning to the radio.

Denni grimaces. “Not far with this old equipment. A few kilometers at best—and that’s with perfect line of sight.”

“Yeos save us,” Bilgi mutters, making his way through the enthralled resistance fighters.

“We’re trying to raise Ghofaun to see if he’s got anything different.”

Bilgi nods but says nothing.

Next to Faruq, little Husniya cowers and tells her brother she’s scared. He responds with silence, his hand stroking her back.

“Ghofaun, come in. Ghofaun, do you copy?” Denni repeats.

“I copy,” a voice replies, distorted through the static wash. “We can see the top of the rocket rising into view. It looks like—” There’s a prolonged wash of static. “This isn’t good. Can you see what’s going on?”

I take the receiver from Denni and key it up. “We see it, Master Ghofaun. Listen, the only reason they would stage so many Creed here is if they were afraid we might disable the barrier. We need a way inside. What do you think?”

The group around me grows restless. Bilgi and Mos work to control their fear, reassuring them we can still do what we came to do.

After a long pause, Ghofaun comes back over the old radio, his voice faint and fuzzy. “I can do it. See the antenna jutting from the main building?”

“Yes.”

“I say we destroy that building. I don’t know if it controls the shields, but either way, we’ll at least cause some chaos, disrupt their control, and maybe take out their communications.”

“Okay, but if those shields go down completely, there’s nothing to keep the Musuls or the Rippers out. It’ll be a total free-for-all in there.”

“That’s true,” Ghofaun says.

Bilgi looks at me and shrugs. “Make a beeline for the rocket,” he says, pointing to the enormous ship, “and hope everyone else is too busy to worry about us. It’s all we’ve got.”

I key the radio back up. “Ghofaun, your idea may be the best thing we have going right now. Let’s do it. How will you get in there to plant the explosives?”

“Leave that to me. I’ll need a few minutes, and I’ll have to go radio silent. When the building goes, that’s your signal.”

“I got it. You get us in, and we’ll take care of the rocket. Copy?”

“Copy. My team will meet you on the launchpad to cover you as you plant the explosives.”

“Copy. Just get us in there.”

“You can count on me. Stand by.”

The radio clicks off.

I hand the receiver back to Denni. “Everyone get low and wait for Ghofaun’s signal. When it’s time to go, we push hard for the rocket, and we don’t stop for anything. You guys hear me?”

Everyone murmurs and nods.

“Until we go, everyone stay ready. Make sure your weapons are accessible. Make sure your minds are right. Once we move from here, there’s no turning back.” I check the less-than-lethal weapon in my hands one last time. Please, Yeos, let it be different this time.

With a whoosh, a Gracile ship drops through the clouds and circles above the madness. The Leader. The Musuls fire their rocket-propelled grenades at the vessel, their rounds screaming over the shield and dropping out of sight. They can’t reach the ship. Swooping low, it nears the landing area, a stone’s throw from the rocket.

The silver-haired man briskly exits the ship, flanked by his personal guard. He pivots and moves with purpose toward the rocket. His Creed are carrying something.

“Demitri, what is that?” I point to the case in their hands.

Denni offers the Gracile her binoculars, but he dismisses them.

“It’s Nikolaj’s portable fusion reactor.” He taps his forehead again. “I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault—ˮ

“Come on, Demitri. Stay focused.”

“But if it weren’t for me—ˮ

“Let it go.” I soften my tone to reassure him. “That’s not helpful right now, Demitri. Ghofaun is going to get us in. When he does, you stay with me, understand?”

Demitri nods. “Okay. Yes, I can do that.”

“Got your sick stick?” Denni asks Demitri.

“Uh-huh.” His eyes are wide.

“Here, take these, too. It’s a modded firecracker and a small torch. If you get lost, light it up and it’ll pop, make a high-pitched sound, and let off red smoke. We’ll find you.” She pats him on his massive shoulder.

“If I get ... lost?”

“Don’t worry, Demitri. Just stay close.”

As I stare into his scared eyes, knowing what’s to come, I can’t help but take the opportunity to ask my selfish question. He may be the only one who can tell me. “Do you speak Russian?”

Demitri looks utterly lost. “Russian?”

“Old Russian, before us. Before this.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Just tell me.”

He shrugs. “Some, but I don’t have tons of formal instruction. I learned by reading—ˮ

“What does this mean: Menya zovut smert’, i ad prikhodit so mnoy.”

The Gracile wets his lips. “Umm, if you’re saying it correctly, it means: my name is Death, and Hell follows with me.”

“Great. That’s just great.”

“Why? What is it?”

“It’s nothing. Just something I heard. Don’t worry about it.”

Demitri taps his head.

Way to offer comfort, Mila. Get your mind back to the task at hand. “Faruq, Mos, and Denni, you stay with me as well. We’ll focus on going straight for the rocket.” They nod. “Denni, you have the nitro?”

“I have it.” Denni pats the bag of high explosives slung across her shoulders.

“Good. Drop the radio pack here. I need you light and fast.”

“Okay.” Denni leans the radio pack against a nearby wall. She secures the nitro and grabs her old-fashioned bolt-action hunting rifle.

“Mila.” Faruq nudges my arm.

“Yes?”

“I, um, just wanted to say ...”

“What is it, Faruq?” His eyes are as deep and dark as krig, but somehow they comfort me. My cheeks are burning again. Do I have feelings for this man? I most certainly should not have feelings for this man.

He holds my gaze in a way that stops my breath short. “Mila,” he nearly whispers, taking my hand in his. “Whatever happens, I am glad to have known you.”

He gently squeezes my fingers. I squeeze back. However wrong everything else in the world is, at least one thing feels right.

“Hey,” Mos calls, catching me off guard, “take this.” He presses an auto-injector with a strange yellow liquid into my hand. A single handwritten word is scrawled on the side—“Hyper.”

“Thanks, Mos, but I don’t do this stuff.” I try to push it back, but he won’t take it.

“It’s not extreme. Mostly just synthetic adrenaline, some stimulants, and endorphins. Just keep it, in case you get in a bad spot.” The Kahangan grins.

No way I’m using this. I drop the drug into my cargo pocket. “Thanks, Mos.”

“There he goes,” Bilgi says.

The Leader moves from the series of interconnected ladders, across a narrow platform, and along a walkway that disappears behind the nose cone of the rocket.

Bilgi continues. “Listen to me now, people. Do not forget the strength of your hearts. Whatever enclave you hail from, this world is our home. We will not let the Gracile oppressors take it from us. Fight. Give your life to save the people you love. This is our last chance for survival. If you do not spend your life here, then you will lose it pitifully when the elites above steal it from you. The people of Etyom are counting on the boldness of the resistance. Let them remember us all as heroes this day!”

We all stand, screaming, and as if on cue, the command building explodes. We continue screaming, even louder now, thrusting our weapons into the air. The plasma shield flickers and fizzles out. By the hand of Yeos. Ghofaun’s plan worked.

Mos pulls a loaded auto-injector full of yellow liquid from a side pocket in his pants, flips the cap, and jams the nozzle against his leg. He exhales forcefully, clenching his fists.

Work through me, Yeos.

“Fly, girl.” Bilgi grabs my arm. “Go now!” The old man has an energy in his eyes: the power of belief. “Go and become the instrument of fate. You can do this.”

I pull my satchel from my neck and press it to his chest. He takes it and gives me a wink. He knows the priceless tome lies inside.

I turn, calling out to the resistance, “This is it. Stay with me.”

The mass of resistance fighters pours from the mouth of the tunnel and charges out into the madness beyond. We barrel across the snow-covered landscape toward the perimeter fence. Beyond, row upon row of Creed soldiers await, poised to fight.

“Mos, get up here,” I shout.

Breathing with labored gasps, Mos’s heavy bulk pushes past me. As the Creed shift, focusing their attention toward us, Mos raises his laser cannon and fires. Like a beam of super-magnified sunlight, the laser blasts forward, searing the faces of the robots. One by one their lifeless mouths drop open, their optical circuits fried.

“It’s working!” Mos yells.

“I know it’s working. Run!” I yell back.

Mos drops his shoulder and plows right through the middle of the blinded Creed, cleaving their ranks like a heated blade through ice, but a lone robot strides forward and raises its rifle.

I shoulder my bag launcher, aim, and fire. The lead-filled bag rockets from the chamber, slamming into the visor of the Creed. Its head spins 180 degrees. The robot drops to its knees and slumps against the frozen ground.

“Go. Get to the suspension bridge,” I scream.

Mos trains his laser, blasting and blinding the Creed as they converge. I chance a look behind and see Faruq strike a Ripper with the butt of his rifle. Denni takes out a Ripper with a precision shot to the head. Behind them, a group of resistance fighters perish under a swirling tide of death and destruction.

But where’s Demitri? That fool. “Demitri. Where’s Demitri?”