Three seconds. That’s all it takes for the corridor to go from pressurized to void.
“Seal it!” Suki shouts.
The blast doors slam shut. Emergency bulkheads engage with heavythunksof metal on metal.
Then, slowly, atmosphere floods back into the sealed corridor—a controlled repressurization that still hits the disoriented elites like a second shockwave.
We rise from cover.
The elites are scattered across the corridor in various states of disarray. Some are down and not moving. Others are struggling to stand, their armor’s gyroscopic stabilizers trying to compensate for the sudden return of gravity and pressure. Their formation is gone. Their coordination is shattered.
“Now,” Suki says, and there’s something cold in her voice. Something that reminds me she survived three years on this rock by being tougher than anyone expected. “We finish this.”
We do.
The War Room falls silent.
The last elite drops, smoke rising from the hole Suki put through his helmet. The emergency lighting casts everything in shades of red and shadow. Bodies litter the floor—too many of them, most in Meridian black, but some in Zaterran crystalline armor too. The air smells like ozone and scorched metal and something organic that I’m trying not to think about.
On the main screen, the upload bar reaches 46%.
“Status?” Suki calls out, already moving to check Vex’ra’s position.
“CORRIDOR IS SECURE,” Zip reports. “RUSTY IS STILL ENGAGED IN THE MAINTENANCE TUNNELS, BUT REPORTS THAT THE INTRUDERS ARE ‘DEMONSTRATING REMARKABLE RESISTANCE TOCORRECTIVE EDUCATION.’ I BELIEVE THIS IS RUSTY’S WAY OF SAYING HE IS HAVING FUN.”
“What about the generators?” I ask, and my voice sounds strange in my own ears. Distant. Because through the bond, I can feel—
Something’s wrong.
It’s not pain. Not yet. But it’s the anticipation of pain, the moment before impact, the split-second before something terrible happens that you can’t prevent.
“Power output is holding steady,” Suki says, studying her displays. “Henrok and Rynn must be holding the—”
The lights die.
Not flicker.Die.
The holographic displays vanish. The steady hum of the fortress shields—that subliminal vibration I’d stopped noticing because it was always there—drops an octave and then another and then cuts out entirely. The amber glow of the crystalline veins in the walls fades to sickly yellow, then dims to almost nothing.
Emergency lighting kicks in, painting everything blood-red.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no—”
“THE POWER GENERATORS,” Zip announces, and there’s something in his synthesized voice I’ve never heard before. Genuine alarm. “THEY HAVE BEEN COMPROMISED. SHIELD OUTPUT IS DROPPING RAPIDLY. CURRENT PROJECTION: SEVEN MINUTES UNTIL COMPLETE FAILURE.”
Seven minutes until the fleet burns us from orbit.
Seven minutes until everyone in this fortress dies.
Through the bond, I feel—
Pain.
Jagged, white-hot,screamingpain that isn’t mine but hits me like I’ve been stabbed. It tears through the connection betweenus, and I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel the echo of something terrible happening to the man I love.
I stagger, grab the edge of the tactical table. The stone is cold under my palms. Solid. Real. The only thing keeping me upright.
“Polly!” Suki’s at my side instantly, grabbing my arm. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
