No. Not quite. The sky is there, and the sun, but I can see past them, to a ceiling only a couple of dozen yards overhead. It’s a fake, but a convincing fake. And the plants are real, the soil. I reach down, touch the grass, and shiver.
Then I turn, and find pandemonium coming after me.
The column has lost all semblance of order in this last, desperate sprint. The first wave of civilians is following directly behind the vanguard. They reach the doorway, halting briefly in confusion, but they’re pushed forward by those still coming from behind. A crowd develops, and I can see the situation threatening to spiral out of control.
“Keep running!” I give it my best shout, cutting through the babel. “Into the Garden! Clear the way for the people behind you!” At the rear of the mass of humanity, I can see the glow and flash of magic. “Vanguard, stay here, with me! We’re going to have to hold them back!”
People pour past me, running flat out, not even pausing now on the edge of the sanctuary. I see Shiara, in a small bubble of calm maintained by a few of her own hunters. The Scholar hurries past, supported by his servants Erin and Arin. Scavengers and street vendors, servants, cooks, and porters, everyone who’d scraped a living in Soliton’s harsh streets. Children, in smart uniforms, silks, or tattered rags. The better part of a thousand people, rushing into the Garden.
The rear guard comes into view as the press subsides. There’s been no sign of Meroe, and for a moment panic rises in my chest, but then I catch sight of her at the tail end of the column, just behind the fighters. Of course she would wait, let the others rush past. Aifin stands beside her, a blade in either hand, edged by a slight aura of golden Rhema light.
Beyond her, hunters fling fire into the darkness. I see the green glow of a Melos blade moments before Karakoa appears, dragging a stumbling Zarun with one hand and brandishing his long, curved weapon with the other. There are too few in the rear guard, far too few considering how many Zarun took with him. I ignite my blades and hurry to Meroe’s side.
“Isoka!” The relief on her face makes my heart stutter. “Is it safe inside?”
“I think so.” I look past the hunters, into the dark. “What happened?”
“A whole wave of them came at us at once.” Meroe’s face is ashen. “They broke right through the line. It was…” She swallows. “Zarun’s people stopped them, when they arrived.”
“Are they still coming?”
Meroe nods. “But we’ll be safe in the Garden. Won’t we?”
The rear guard, falling back, has reached the doors. Now I can see the crabs advancing behind them, shadowy monsters with no eyes and too many limbs blending into a single, amorphous mass.
A blueshell pushes ahead of the rest. It lunges forward, through the door, and its spindly feet dig into the soil of the Garden. I hold my breath, waiting for a bolt of energy to strike it down or drive it back, but nothing comes. One claw snaps out, grabbing for a young woman pouring a stream of Myrkai fire at another crab. Before it can reach her, Karakoa is there, leaving the panting Zarun on his knees. He swings his long blade with both hands, cutting through armor like it was cloth, and the blueshell rears back.
“Isoka,” Meroe says. “Now what?”
“I don’t know.” I look around frantically. “He said we’d be safe here.”
“Well, rotting ask him!” Meroe says. “They’re going to get into the Garden!”
“Hagan!” Over the chaos of battle, I doubt anyone but Meroe can hear. “Hagan, how do we stop them?”
Eddica energy is all around me, here. The whole Garden is thick with it. He has to be able to hear me.
Meroe grabs my arm. “The doors,” she says. “Look. See where they fold?”
I follow her pointing finger. On the Garden wall, steel is folded up like a paper fan on either side of the huge doors. I imagine that metal flexing, straightening, blocking the entrance. She’s right; she has to be right. There has to be a way to close them. But there are no pulleys and cranks, nothing to grab on to, and the steel sections must weigh tons.
Everything on this ship operates by Eddica power. I try reaching out for the doors, as I reached out for the dredwurm, but there’s nothing there to twist, no flow of energy.
“There has to be something. Hagan!” I turn around, wildly. “Close the rotting doors!”
There’s a tug at my chest, as though someone had yanked on the thread anchored there. For a moment, I hear Hagan’s voice in my ear, thick with pain and distortion.
“Isoka, he’s here. You have to help; I’m trying, but I can’t get out—”
It vanishes, abruptly.
Oh, rot. Oh, rot rot rot.
“Meroe, I have to find the Scholar.”
“What?” She turns to me. “Why?”
“No time. Just trust me.”
“I—” She shakes her head. “Of course I trust you. Go!”
I run, back toward the line. Karakoa is standing just inside the doorway, but the rest of the hunters are beginning to edge away. A few have already run into the Garden. I told them they’d be safe here, didn’t I? I can’t blame them for believing it.
“Hold here!” I try to shout over the sound of battle, and I can barely hear myself. “You have to hold here!”
I skid to a halt beside Karakoa. Thora, Jack, and the rest of the vanguard are gathered around, looking uncertain. The big Akemi looks down at me, blade purring softly in his hands.
“This is the Garden?” he says. I can hear the doubt in his voice.
“This is the Garden,” I say. “I’m going to get this door closed, and then the crabs will be locked out. But you have to hold here until I can. If they get in, it’s not going to matter!”
For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. His jaw moves from side to side, as though trying to crack a nut in his teeth. I notice for the first time that he’s wounded, bloody cuts in several places on his arms and legs and the telltale scorch marks of powerburn on his shoulders. None of it seems to slow him down. Zarun, a few paces away, tries to get up off his knees and fails. He’s bleeding, too.
Karakoa nods.
“Go,” he says. “We will hold here, as long as we can.”
“Thank you—” I start to say, but he’s already raised his voice into a bellow that cuts through the shouts and blasts like a trumpet.
“Stay at the door! Do not let them pass!”
The hunters who’d drifted away jerk to a halt, as though someone had tugged on their leashes. The vanguard who’d accompanied me throw themselves into the fight as well. With a narrower area to defend, they have a chance, even with thinned numbers. Karakoa wades forward, blade slashing, and Zarun finally clambers to his feet. His shirt hangs open, and there’s a bloody slash across his chest, washing his light brown skin with gore.
“I’ll be back,” I tell him.
He nods, too. I can’t tell if its belief or resignation on his face.
I turn and run.
* * *
My first thought is to find someone who’d seen the Scholar, but the thread of gray energy in my chest is still tugging. It’s changed direction, leading not toward the center of the Garden, as before, but off to the side. Playing a hunch, I follow it, the springy grass unfamiliar under my feet after so much time walking on steel and mushrooms.
Along the edge of the big circular chamber, there’s a staircase, hard to see from a distance. It ascends in a curve, following the wall, and passes through the fake sky. The thread leads me to the bottom, and I pound up it, boots clanging on grated metal steps.
Above the sky, there’s a metal ceiling. The stairs cut through it, and onto another level. Instead of grassland, there’s forest, overgrown tree trunks stretching away as far as I can see. Something chitters from the canopy overhead. A fat raindrop lands on my arm.
The thread stretches, the pull getting stronger. I sprint up the steps, gasping for breath, my thighs on fire. Another fake sky, another metal ceiling. And then—
The pull of the thread shifts abruptly. The stairs continue, winding around and around the endless tower, but the thin line of gray light now points inward. This level has no soil, only ordinary metal deck. There’s a corridor, like the corridors all over Soliton. Here, though, no rust mars the metal. Brushed steel gleams as though it were polished yesterday, and pale, sourceless light washes out all shadows.
I slow, leaning against the wall, straining to breathe. I force myself to walk, down the corridor and in the direction of the increasingly frantic tugs on the Eddica thread. The hallway continues, monotonous and featureless, until the exit has dwindled to a dot behind me. Then, ahead, another dot appears, expanding to a set of double doors, which stand open. There’s brighter light beyond. I start jogging again, gritting my teeth at the pain in my knees.