The moon was setting when the sensor chimed.
I went still. Checked the readout.
Movement. Southern perimeter. Twelve signatures.
The survivors. They’d been quiet since the last assault, licking their wounds somewhere in the hills. I’d assumed they were waiting for reinforcements.
I’d assumed wrong.
“Anhara.” I kept my voice even. “We have company.”
“The third wave?”
“No. The survivors from before. They’re probing the southern approach.”
Silence. Then: “Can you hold them?”
I assessed the angles. The station’s position on the ridge. The natural choke points.
“I can handle them. But I need to go dark.”
“Kallum.”
“The comms signal could give away my position. I need them to think I’m not here.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
Another silence. I could hear her breathing. Could imagine her in the farmhouse basement, surrounded by Torek’s equipment, processing what I was asking.
“The sequence,” she said.
“You can run it alone for a while. You know the patterns. Anything critical, I’ll break silence.”
“And if something goes wrong?”
“Then you’ll figure it out.” The words came easier than they should have. “You’re capable, Anhara. Torek knew it. I know it. Trust yourself.”
She didn’t answer for a long moment.
“Don’t die,” she said finally. The same words. A different weight.
“You first.”
I cut the comm.
Then nothing. No static. No breathing. No voice in my ear.
Just the ridge, and the darkness, and enemies who didn’t know they were already dead.
I movedthrough the night the way Torek had taught me.
Patient. Invisible. Present everywhere and nowhere at once.
The survivors spread out along the southern ridge. Amateur formation. Too much distance between units. Too little awareness of their flanks.
They were probing, not attacking. Testing our defenses. Looking for weakness.
