Mind blank, ears roaring, I float down the hallway toward the exit, limbs starting to shake. I swallow hard, fighting nausea. I need to get back to my quarters. Have a shower, lie down for a few minutes. Let myself think, breathe. Find a way to get Cormac out, now that we have some time to work with.
The corridor opens up into the main room, where the techs from the surveillance repository have joined the officers currently on duty. They’re all crowded around one of the monitors, which is no longer split to show the live feeds from the base. Instead it’s playing the same three or four seconds of footage over and over in a loop.
I take a few steps closer, peering silently past their heads—and my heart stops. It’s the footage I just painstakingly erased. One of the techs must have had it on a local drive so they could keep working while evicted from the repository.
Because not only is it the footage—they’ve finished cleaning it up and enhancing it. The clip playing over and over again shows him clearly: the handsome chin, the thick brows, the arrogant smile.
I back up silently, pushing down the impulse to panic. None of the techs notice I’m there, and I slip out into the night. I keep my head down, forcing myself to walk normally, return the occasional nod or salute aimed in my direction as I pass other, equally exhausted officers going about their duties.
The image is limited to the security office. It’ll take them time—hours, probably—to run it through all the necessary levels before it’s made public. My mind turns over and over, searching for a way to get Cormac out before that happens. No time to think of the implications now. I have to get him out first, and think later about what that means for me.
And then, abruptly, the PA monitors crackle to life all over the base. White screens pop up on every building corner, shedding an additional layer of light across the paths and intersections. A voice booms into the night, deafening me. I look up—and there’s Cormac’s face, plastered across every screen on the base. There’s one in Molly’s, one in every barracks. There’s one in every office and docking bay.
There’s one in the hospital.
I abandon pretense and break into a jog. Who’s going to stop me and ask where I’m going? I’m Captain Chase. I belong here.
I force open the back entrance to the hospital, startling an orderly into dropping a tray of food all over the floor. I mumble an apology and sweep up the hall, aiming for Cormac’s room. I pause on the way by the laundry, picking up a set of scrubs that looks about his size. It’s the oldest deception in the book, but I’ve got nothing else, and no time to work out a better plan.
When I burst into Cormac’s room, my eyes fall first on the HV mounted in the corner. There’s Cormac’s face, smiling out at me, hair tumbling just so into his eyes. The second thing I see is Cormac’s bed, the sheets rumpled and half tugged away, a few pinpricks of blood marring the sheets where the IV needle rests, as though it was torn from his skin. The oxygen mask is on the floor, and the monitors are all flatlining, electrodes scattered across the bed.
I brace myself against the door frame, dizziness sweeping over me with all the force of a tidal wave, my ears ringing as my knees threaten to give.
The bed is empty.
Most of the other soldiers are unconscious, but one lifts her head, groggy with pain medication and mumbling something at me that I can’t hear through my panic. She must have seen him run; she’s trying, through her haze, to tell me which way the fugitive went.
I stumble out of the room and break into a run toward the back exit. Cormac’s injured, and he won’t make it off the base before somebody spots him, now that they know what they’re looking for. And even if he does, he’ll never get back to the rebel hideout without a boat. It would take him hours, and in his condition he’s as likely to drown as he is to reach his people. Though an exhausted corner of my mind shrinks from the idea of heading back out into that swamp, the rest of me doesn’t hesitate.
I only get a few steps outside the hospital when my mouth abruptly floods with the taste of copper, the dizziness intensifying. My legs quiver the way they did on that marshy island, before I saw the ghost of Cormac’s hidden facility. I blink, hard, as the sibilant sound of whispering surges over the background noises of the base. Separate voices—two, maybe three—but I can’t tell what they’re saying.
Have to make it to a boat. I grit my teeth, pointing my boots toward the docks. All I know, all I can think of, is that I have to find Cormac.
They’re always together, the ghost and the green-eyed boy. They’re in her mother’s shop, they’re at her father’s garage. They’re on Paradisa. They’re in the outpost on Patron. He’s one of the soldiers who died in the first few weeks after she transferred to Avon. His face is on every wanted poster on the base.
The ghost leads her down the deserted streets of November, and at the end of the swath of destruction is the green-eyed boy, with a box of matches and a charming smile.
“Don’t follow me,” says the boy, reaching out to touch her cheek. “Don’t follow me this time.”