by Karen Bao
The tall Lunar soldier tosses a small hand grenade forward at the double doors—and everything goes orange. Heat slicks against my suit.
The soldier runs into the center of the room, and Alex, Wes, and I dive behind a couch a moment before the other Lunar soldiers make it inside. Two people wearing what look like wool rags are already hidden there; they scream when we join them, but make room once they recognize Wes and Alex.
As the smoke clears, I behold a once-beautiful aquamarine room that resembles Dovetail’s quarters several floors below. The floor-to-ceiling window showcases Battery Bay’s interior. Buildings are burning, and instead of the organized traffic in the midair freeways, there’s swarming and explosions of aircraft. Terrified Odans huddle against the walls behind makeshift barricades of plush couches and mahogany tables.
Finally in sight of his victims, the soldier lifts his visor. Lazarus’s green eyes glare in the half-light. He’s ditched the auburn wig; sweaty black hair sticks to the brown skin of his forehead. As he stalks forward, only the balls of his feet touch the ground.
Hate, the frigid kind, locks my joints in place. Although he’s as handsome as ever, he’s left behind his mask of civility. I prefer him this way. No more pretending not to hate me and mine.
“The Standing Committee has provided me with a list of individuals who must be brought to justice,” he shouts. “And entrusted me with their eradication.”
Let me guess: Dovetail’s messengers are on that list, and the Committee will compensate him handsomely for getting rid of us. It’s brilliant—using his rage and desire for vengeance to get him to kill those he would kill anyway—for their riskiest work. If he weren’t poised to take lives, I might feel amused that the player is being played.
“Five of them hide among you,” Lazarus says. “Inside this room. With your cooperation, I will exterminate those five, and only those five, before I leave. If anybody dares to interfere, he or she will be discarded.”
Lazarus Penny leers at the trembling Odans. “Shall we begin?”
“You will not begin anything!” cries an Odan man near the front of the huddle. He has a full gray beard and spectacles. “We are Odans, Lazarus, guardians of all God’s children. We protect our own people. We protect those who are not our own. We protected you—until you became a demon.”
And then they excommunicated him.
Lazarus winces—he’s always hated reminders of his past. “What did I say about cooperation?” A flash of silver, and his Lazy is pointed at the Odans, daring one of them to protest.
“No . . .” Alex murmurs beside me.
We can’t let Lazarus shoot, even if it means giving away our position.
Rocketing to my feet, I lift my visor. “We’re here,” I call out, willing my voice not to betray my fear. “We’re cooperating. Leave your people alone.”
“Excellent. As it so happens, the first name on the list”—Lazarus twirls his left hand around to point an accusing finger at me—“is Phaet Theta.”
Turning his back to the Odans, he raises his Lazy—
My left hand clenches into a fist, thumb under my fingers, as Lazarus squeezes the trigger. The violet laser beam burns through my Batterer uniform, hits my mirrored suit, and bounces back at him. His speed saves him—he ducks, fast, to evade it.
“Bury that man,” growls Wes’s father.
Wes and Alex spring to their feet, weapons at the ready. Lunar lasers streak the air; the Sanctuarists’ poison darts shoot out to meet them. Several Militia troops stop moving, their feet caught in booby traps. A Sanctuarist throws a chair upward, breaking the glass separating the ceiling’s aquarium from the living area. Glass shards, pebbles, false seaweed, and goldfish rain down on the Lunars.
But despite their efforts, the Odans are no match for their foes, who have armor that can stop bullets and weapons made for killing. Even though they’ve entangled several Militia members in ropes, other Lunars soon cut them free. Lazarus’s troops charge through the Odans, batting them away or shooting them with their guns; they don’t bother to finish them off, knowing they’ll die anyway.
Seeing several Lazies pointed my way, I throw myself to the floor and dig a dagger out of my boot. Alex and Wes rush the soldiers from behind, smashing their helmeted heads together two by two. The distraction lasts just long enough for me to disappear behind a marble countertop, squatting to hide myself.
“Where’d she go?” the Militia soldier nearest me hollers.
I inch forward on my elbows like a worm and slash her hamstring. She keels over, crying out in pain. When a nearby teammate rushes toward her fallen body, I give him the same treatment.
Crash! A cold wind shudders through the room, chilling me through my uniform and spraying us all with rain. The floor-to-ceiling window has shattered—and a small Pacifian hovercraft is beelining toward us, its headlights two red beams in the murky space. The craft’s body is boxy looking, its wings triangular; it seems to be a convertible set up for open-air combat, since all the seats are exposed to the elements.
Around me, the chaos has thinned, perhaps because the Odans and Sanctuarists know Lazarus has won this round. I pull myself up to get a better view, putting my back against a wall.
The Odans’ temporary hideout has been destroyed. Chairs are tipped over, broken. A wall mirror, smashed. The ceiling’s lotus-shaped fluorescent lamp swings from a screw. Twisted bodies litter the floor, glittering with a dusting of shattered glass from the smashed window. Family members bend over the fallen, pressing their warm foreheads to chilly brows.
Otherwise, the floor is empty; the remaining Odans have fled to the hostel’s lower levels, or into other buildings. The few remaining include Wes’s parents. Wesley Sr.’s expression is brittle, stony; Mrs. Carlyle sobs, muttering to herself, one arm around each of her younger daughters. They both stare in horror at something outside; I watch Mrs. Carlyle’s lips move: He’s got her, he’s got her.
Even without names, I know exactly whom she means. In front of the smashed window, Lazarus stands, feet planted in a wide stance, Murray’s neck caught in the crook of his elbow. Her pale skin chafes against the black canvas of his sleeve with every shallow breath. Threads of her hair whip around their heads, as though binding them together. Her thundercloud eyes are wide, their frenzied storm visible even from a distance.
But she’s not struggling. Does she think fighting is useless? Or does part of her still want to be in his arms? It makes me sick, how from far away he could almost be her sweetheart, hugging her too hard.
The hovercraft docks.
“If anybody shoots,” Lazarus says, pointing a Lazy at us, “I will strangle her.”
He steps onto the hovercraft, yanking Murray along by the neck, nearly gagging her. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t scream.
WES AND I START SPRINTING BEFORE THE hovercraft detaches from the hostel wall. But the vehicle is accelerating too, gliding away toward Pacifia at the command of the pilot, who’s securely tethered to his seat.
They take off.
By the time Wes and I reach the edge, the hovercraft’s a meter and a half out from the hole in the wall. I don’t think twice about leaping across the gap, though it’s hundreds of meters above the city streets. Neither does Wes. The protests from our allies and his family don’t reach our ears, blocked out by the storm and the frenzy of our rage.
The craft rocks twice as we land on its edge. Our boots slip on the wet metal.
Two Pacifian soldiers’ bodies are strewn across the rear seat of the craft; perhaps they were shot earlier in the battle. I decide that they’re dead and not a threat. Glancing backward, I see two Lunar soldiers leaping after us—one doesn’t make it and falls, shouting, toward the ground. The other sticks her landing, but I shove her hard and she goes the same way as her colleague.
“Phaet, behind you!” Wes shouts.
I duck u
nder the rifle butt meant to brain me, straighten, and see that the pilot’s seat is empty; the pilot has left the craft on autopilot to attack me. Wes wrestles my assailant for a moment—then strikes his forehead with the underside of his wrist, knocking him out. To be safe, we heave him overboard. There’s no time for guilt. These soldiers are part of Lazarus’s larger scheme.
Ahead of us, Lazarus pushes a struggling Murray toward one of the rear seats, seemingly unfazed by the loss of his accomplices. She kicks at his knees and tries to bite his forearms. The hovercraft circles around the hostel and jets across the roiling dark sea, toward Pacifia.
“Excellent work, Phaet,” he shouts. “Wesley, I knew you would follow me, as long as I had her. You cannot help but lead me to one another.”
Murray claws at him halfheartedly. “Lazarus, you’re better than this. I know you are . . .” Even if she could run, she has nowhere to go. The craft has floated ten meters or more out to sea. Lazarus handcuffs her, wrestles her down, and chains her to an armrest. The dagger in my hand feels flimsy compared to his strong, sure limbs, but I watch, waiting for the right moment to use it.
“The name Wesley Carlyle was second on the extermination list,” Lazarus says. “I’d known he was on Battery Bay for some while—”
I throw the dagger at the back of Lazarus’s neck, aiming for the spot between his helmet and torso armor. He ducks out of its path, and the weapon clinks against the hovercraft’s side.
I freeze, astonished.
“—but I bided my time, knowing Phaet Theta would be unable to stay away. Affection—isn’t it a puzzle?” Lazarus laughs, a charming, too-perfect laugh, and picks up my weapon. No one taught him what love is, I remember Alex saying. “I was correct. She arrived, as predicted—with three more of my targets in tow.”
Alex, Yinha, Andromeda. I bite back a frustrated cry, infuriated that we made his deadly assignment so easy. Behind me, I hear Wes’s breath, quick and ragged. His fear multiplies my own.
“Marina is just a bonus,” Lazarus says, raising my weapon to Murray’s face. She doesn’t whimper or scream. If she cries, her tears are invisible in the rain.
“A bonus?” Her expression is pleading. “You are not your mother, Lazarus—I know you . . .”
He stiffens, glares at her, and drags the blade across her left cheek. “My despicable mother. You want me to grace your ears with stories of her? Want to hear about how after my father left, she denied me food and sleep until I learned to fight, to read, to bring honor to the Penny name?”
Murray shakes the blood off her face as if it’s just water. “When we were together, you never laid a hand on me, never made me feel small . . . please.”
Stony-faced like his father, Wes unsheathes a long serrated knife from his belt. I dig out my last dagger and hide the blade in my sleeve.
Lazarus keeps his eyes trained on Murray.
“I have become so much more than she ever expected of me, and none of you will bring me down again.”
Murray’s face is bleeding profusely; she must be in terrible pain. Still, she tries to kick Lazarus and misses. He straightens into a relaxed fighting stance, one foot back, dagger hand raised to his chest.
Murray starts yanking on the handcuffs. Within seconds, they rub her wrists raw. Wes and I rush forward at the same time. At close range, Lazarus can’t effectively use his Lazy. Instead, he takes full advantage of the dagger I’ve all but handed him. He slashes and splits the air, forcing us to avoid his right side. I squat down to keep my balance, utilizing my lower center of gravity, while Wes ricochets off the seats, the dashboard, the hovercraft’s left and right sides. We attack with knives, fists and feet, elbows and knees, but to no avail. We’re unable to dislodge Lazarus from the craft’s center, the most stable part of the vehicle.
A small Batterer military hovercraft, painted in blue-and-gray camouflage like the others, catches up with us. Its artillery points our way, but the crew can’t fire at Lazarus while he’s so close.
“Amateurs,” Lazarus says, his blade grating against mine. “You’re both so out of shape. Love has made you soft.”
He raises the dagger and drives the blade into the back of Wes’s unarmored knee.
Wes’s howl of pain nearly knocks me off balance. He kneels on one leg, blood dribbling from the other. It mixes with the rain, leaving a scarlet sheen on his armor.
Has affection made me weak? My frustration growing, I thrust my dagger at Lazarus’s midsection. He slithers out of range, drawing another, longer blade from his belt. Even with the help of Wes, whom I once thought unbeatable at close-range combat, I can’t punish Lazarus for his many betrayals. Can’t save Murray, who’s suffered too much.
“You couldn’t face us on your own?” I imagine I’m Callisto, taunting him into distraction. With Wes down, there’s no other choice. “Had to wait until Pacifia and the Militia arrived?”
“I brought them here!” Lazarus lunges at me, aiming one knife at my neck, the other at my midsection. I twist down and away, showing him my back; the lower blade slips between my armor’s plates and punctures three centimeters of flesh, narrowly missing my spine. I let out a screech that sounds like a wildcat’s, a wolf’s—anything but human, anything but mine.
Lazarus swipes at my belly, and I wriggle out of the way, back throbbing with every movement. “I . . . informed them”—he aims at my head—“that this was their . . . golden day. To . . . destroy Battery Bay . . . before it fled, or formed an alliance with the likes of you.”
Just as I thought. Lazarus orchestrated the attack, knowing Pacifia would lose its opportunity to pin the island city down after Battery Bay moved southward. I kick at him, doing little damage. The small Batterer hovercraft, piloted by some unknown ally, still cruises beside us, but how can it help when Murray’s chained up? We’re halfway to Pacifia. If we don’t defeat Lazarus soon, we’ll touch down and get swarmed by soldiers. They’ll kill Murray first, while we watch.
A gust of wind rams our hovercraft from the side. The vessel lurches, causing Lazarus to lose his footing. Wes and I cling to the railing, our eyes meeting amidst the flashing light and falling rain.
The autopilot can’t adjust fast enough. The hovercraft loses several meters of altitude. Lazarus slips backward, toward the side of the ship where he’s tethered Murray. Eyes cast down, she picks at her handcuff with a wire. Maybe her cleverness could save her, save us all.
As Lazarus slides, the Batterer hovercraft fires needle-like explosives at him. But he reaches Murray; to make things worse, Pacifian craft engages the Batterer one from afar, and our allies must leave us.
We can turn this fight around on our own, I tell myself. We have to.
“Get to the controls!” Wes’s voice grows weaker—he’s losing too much blood. “We can’t let this thing touch down!”
He draws the Lazy from his belt, takes aim at Lazarus, and fires two shots, both of which miss due to a combination of opaque rain and our enemy’s cursed agility. I scramble toward the pilot’s seat, slipping on puddles and stumbling across the rows of seats. The glass is so cracked it looks like it’s been frosted over, like it’s ready to shatter.
“Stop shooting, Wesley,” Lazarus says. “Now.”
Panicking, I look over my shoulder. He’s grabbed Murray by the waist; he tugs her to her feet and swings her body like a shield, blocking any further bombardment. He presses his dagger’s blade against her white throat, and blood from her cheek dribbles onto the glinting metal. She stands still, fist closed around the handcuff-picking wire, her eyes as clear as I’ve ever seen them. Clear, and full of terror.
Wes keeps his finger on the trigger. “Let her go,” he begs. “If you ever loved her, spare her. People will remember you as merciful, not cold-blooded.”
Lazarus blinks, and for a second, vulnerability emanates from those acid-green eyes. Then they turn hateful again.
“I couldn’t love her, because I didn’t know how.” His voice is soft; it breaks several times with emotion. “And my legacy is already ruined—because of you.”
Wes lunges forward, Lazy in the air.
I reach the pilot’s seat. The controls are unfamiliar: a ball implanted in a socket for steering and dozens of wheels, levers, and buttons. Earthbound technology complicates everything.
The ball-and-socket is locked to steer us in a trajectory toward Pacifia. I hunch over the driver’s seat, flip a switch to Unlock, and spin the ball clockwise. With an almighty jerk, the hovercraft tilts to the right. I hear a body tumbling, look back, and see Lazarus pulling himself up by the railing; he’s contorting his limbs to dodge Wes’s laser fire. Perhaps he stumbled because he was wielding two knives at the expense of holding on. And now he’s dropped one.
Murray still looks petrified, but she’s upright, alternately picking at the handcuff with the wire and banging it against the railing as if she can crack the metal like an eggshell. Across the craft, Wes holds on to the ship’s side with one hand and wraps a foot around a lower rung. He aims the Lazy and fires. One violet blast hits Lazarus in the calf, and he mewls like a cat.
“Lazarus—I can’t lose her,” Wes hollers, raindrops rolling down his face like tears. “My family—”
“Your family,” Lazarus spits. “That word is a conglomeration of empty sounds. I never belonged to one, unlike every other human I’ve known. The Sanctuarists were the closest thing I had to a brotherhood, before they discarded me.” Now he only has the Committee, who have no capacity for love or honor. “I owe you nothing. I owe the world nothing.”
He explodes into motion, pulling himself to his feet and lunging at Murray, who’s screaming her brother’s name. She’s given up on picking the handcuff’s lock. Again and again, she yanks at it—blood pours from her wrist. Even from here, I can tell that several bones are fractured.
Wes shoots at Lazarus’s head but misses, burning zigzag patterns onto Lazarus’s unhurt leg. Emitting another cry, Lazarus trips and falls—but not without purpose. I see his predatory smile as his knife drops—toward Murray’s chest—into her heart—