The vehicle’s wings begin to retract. “You’re to remain in glide mode,” Seville says with a phony smile. “Wingers have been dispatched to clear the area of enemy forces. You’ll proceed on the designated route as planned. Everything is under control—”
Dune leans forward and disconnects the circuitry beneath the console. The heads-up display disappears. “Message received,” he mumbles. He tries to engage the wings, but they’re still controlled by Seville and her team. Outside, people are panicking, running from the masked men. The Vicolt slows to a stop. We idle as the Gates of Dawn soldiers form a wide circle around us. “We’ve become bait, Roselle. Protocol dictates we wait for troops to arrive to annihilate the threat.”
“How close are our troops?” My hand grips my sword on my hip.
“I don’t know. The Gates aren’t attacking us, Roselle. They’re waiting.” He opens the Vicolt’s door and climbs out. “Stay here.” He closes the door. Drawing his fusionblade, he cuts through stones thrown at him, pulverizing most into dust and taking hits from others as he makes his way back to where the night-masked soldier walks slowly toward us. I wonder why our enemies are throwing stones. Surely they have more sophisticated weapons at their disposal—unless they were unable to smuggle them into our fatedom. I try to see the monikers on their hands, but gloves cover them, shrouding their true origins.
The gruesome night-faced man has already traded his flower for a fusionblade. The sword swishes in his black-gloved hand. Dune moves to meet him. My heart hammers. I can’t leave my mentor out there alone, unprotected. Disobeying Dune’s direct order, I fumble with my door. It swings open and I jump from the hovercar, drawing my sword. Drone cameras circle us.
The sky begins to rumble with troopships and death drones. The traitor in black tilts his masked face up. He extinguishes his sword, sheathing it. From the lining of his cape, he pulls out a silver orb that fits in the palm of his hand. He rests his thumb on top of it. Dune skids to a halt and looks up. Enormous airships soar above us. He glances over his shoulder at me, then starts waving his arms, fear carving lines in his face.
Our enemy depresses the button on the device in his palm. I squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating a catastrophic explosion. But nothing happens. I open my eyes. My sword has gone out. I shake it, hoping to reignite it. It’s as useless as a brick. Confused, I search for Dune. He reaches me, grasping my shoulders, turning me back toward the hovercar. Beside us, something falls from the sky and crashes onto the metal pavers. It’s a drone camera. Another one crashes and shatters, and then another. Our enemies begin retreating, melting into the fleeing crowd.
Dune shoves me in the direction of the Vicolt. I lift my face to the sky. A troopship above us pitches to the side, its thunderous sound replaced by the soughs it creates as it falls.
Chapter 4
Pulse Pummeled
The troopship plummets, clipping the side of a building and crashing through several floors. It topples over into another building in a shattering of glass that looks like sparkling, jagged rain. Black smoke turns the blue sky to night. Dune and I reach the Vicolt amid screaming and chaos. People trample each other in their attempt to run from the pelting debris.
Dune pushes me into the Vicolt. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he reconnects the circuitry, and the hovercar trundles forward as he seals the doors shut. Smoke and thick clouds of rock dust overcome the vehicle, shrouding it in a haze. Thunderous rumbling drowns out the sounds of my coughs. Dune closes the vents.
The navigation system comes back online, and the hovercar resumes its course. Still panting, Dune says, “That orb was an FSP, a Fusion Snuff Pulse. It’s new technology. Our spies infiltrated an enemy lab in the Fate of Stars last month and found evidence of such a device. It disrupts the atomic fusion we use to power everything.”
“It brought down the death drones and the Wingers—the drone cameras—my sword,” I reply, lifting the beautifully crafted silver hilt. It doesn’t ignite.
“It probably knocked out anything fusion-driven for several miles.”
But the Vicolt’s power runs on old-fashioned electromagnetic cells, backed up by hydrogen cells. It slows to a stop. A soft breeze blows the dust away, exposing our path. A large portion of one of the troopships lies in a smoldering heap before us. Pieces of people litter the avenue.
A part of me is stunned, but I’ve been trained for this. “We have to help them.”
Dune tears off a strip of his uniform cape and hands it to me. “Wrap this around your nose and mouth to keep the dust from your lungs.”
We emerge, and for the next hour we work as a team, searching the wreckage for wounded, pulling debris away from bodies, checking for signs of life. Most victims are so badly crushed that there’s no chance of survival. I almost lose hope until I discover a young female soldier still breathing among the carnage. Dune pulls pieces of the ship off her as I kneel and begin dressing her wounds with swatches of fabric I tear from her uniform. Her ebony hair is nearly white from dust.
The steel arm of a medical drone nudges me aside, its cylindrical silver body hovering over the soldier. A blue light scans her from head to toe, assessing her injuries. Other medical drones arrive, scouring for survivors. I step back and right into someone standing behind me. Masculine arms encircle me. Turning around in his embrace, I stare up into the visor of a Fate of Swords soldier, noting the shiny black broadsword embossed on its matte-black surface. The visor retracts in sections, revealing a wicked smile and gorgeous, steel-colored eyes.
The soldier jerks the wool away from my nose and mouth. Lifting his hand to reposition his headset microphone, his deep voice resonates into it. “I’ve located her.” He pauses, listening. “I’m sure it’s her.” He grasps my wrist, takes an identification processor from his belt, and positions it over the side of my hand where my sword moniker usually glows. He pulls the trigger on the scanner. Blue light illuminates my skin. His scanner works—he must have come from outside the snuff pulse’s range. My identity doesn’t register on his device. Usually, a holographic screen with all my vital information would display. Frowning, he triggers the scanner again. Blue light dances over my hand, and then . . . nothing.
“Her moniker is fried, but it’s her,” he scowls, glancing skyward. “How do I know for sure? I’ve been forced to watch her every day for as long as I can remember. I think I can recognize Roselle St. Sismode. Commander Kodaline is with her.”
I turn toward the wounded soldier behind me. Dune has taken my place beside her, holding her hand as the medical drone administers combat dressings and medication. The soldier’s hand moves to encircle my upper arm. He turns me back to him. I wince at the pressure of his grip. “Stay where you are,” he orders. His other hand examines my torso. The blood of dead soldiers smears my uniform.
“That’s not my blood.” I try to brush his hand from me. Chaos swirls around us. Newly arrived rescue ships and drones circle overhead. The breeze has begun to blow the dust and smoke away, allowing us to see and breathe much easier.
“Hold still,” the soldier orders.
“I’m not hurt. Please let go of me.” I try again to shrug away.
“Are you in shock?” he asks in a rush. “Who is the Clarity of Virtues? Do you know what fatedom we’re in?” He runs his hand over my stomach, worry creasing his brow when his gloved hand comes away with more blood.
I stare at his handsome face, my heartbeat racing uncomfortably. “I’m not in shock, Fabian Bowie is Clarity, and we’re in Swords. Let go.”
He won’t let go, and I’m not used to being touched, least of all by a domineering soldier whose face makes me feel like my heart is too big for my chest. I drive my elbow into his nose, not hard enough to break it, but enough to let him know he needs to let me go.