“The amnesty island was just a cover,” he says. “It doesn’t exist, never did.”
“But—” I cut myself off. My father’s words, my father’s life: I can’t let them go. Not here, not when they could so easily slip right off the edge of this precipice.
“No, Eden. There’s a refuge, that’s for sure, but not from the war. From the water.” He takes a moment to let that sink in. “They’re still building it, the Wolves—they never stopped, not really.”
And with that, everything clicks into place.
My father’s special assignment wasn’t Sanctuary: he knew everything about the Atlas Project. He dreamed it up, he designed it. He believed in its potential, so much that he continued to work on it even when he learned of Envirotech’s motives to profit from it so extremely. The Wolves must have known who to pull to resurrect the project, must have known through their inside connection with the traitor turned kingpin.
Working for the Wolves must have been Dad’s breaking point. He would never have lied to me—maybe they lied to him, told him he’d be working on a refuge island just to get him to say yes. Yes and yes and yes, until finally, one day, he must have said no. Just like I’ve feared since the day I learned he was never coming home.
“It’s . . . it’s here? The habitat, the Atlas Project?” They must have extracted all his knowledge, probably tortured it out of him.
“That’s what I’m supposed to find out. The Alliance is fairly certain the science is here, a lab at the very least, given the extremes they’ve taken to hide the island. Maybe the habitat, too. But the science is all they’re concerned about, really—getting it out of Wolfpack hands and into their own.”
This, too, makes sense. If Envirotech wanted to profit from it, the Wolves simply want it for themselves. “What does the Alliance want with it?”
“They want to replicate Atlas, build hundreds of habitats—they’ve got contractors and investors lined up for miles.”
I work it out on my own: more habitats mean more residences, which means more of the world will survive if future disasters pile up on themselves, if not even the planet’s best-prepared can thrive. If the war doesn’t drive humanity into extinction first, that is.
Something isn’t adding up. “The Allied Forces—they’re in this purely for the humanitarianism?” That seems too thin a reason. “Why go to such trouble? And why send you?”
“Deliverers and Resistance know the seas better than the Alliance does, and we already have a presence here,” he says. “And, no—saving the world from water isn’t all they’re hoping for. But they believe it could tear the Wolfpack apart from the inside if they were to secure the science, build their own refuge habitats. Think about it.”
I hear Alexa let out a whoop in the distance. “They’re across,” I tell Lonan, after a brief glance. The fishing line dips as Phoenix, at the bridge, adjusts Lonan’s dagger in the tree—the weight of three people at once must have loosened it a bit. With one forceful drive, the line pulls taut again. “How’s your arm?”
“Still attached,” he says. “It’ll hold up when it’s your turn, don’t worry.”
“It’s my turn now.”
He twists around to face me. “If I don’t make it across”—his face lights up in panic when he sees mine, and he backtracks—“no, don’t worry, I’ll totally make it. It’ll be fine. But just in case, promise me you’ll track down whatever information you can about Atlas, and find a way to get in touch with the Alliance. Promise?”
I think I understand what he means, how it could cause the Wolves to implode: so much of their empire is built on fear, the desire to survive, to thrive, taken to unholy extremes. In possession of the Atlas Project habitat, who knows what promises they’ve made—how many Wolves stay loyal just because they honestly believe the kingpins will follow through.
But I know those blueprints. However many promises they’ve made, 98 percent of them will be broken. There simply isn’t space for everyone.
So if the Allied Forces can follow through where the Wolves can’t, it’s possible that 98 percent of their loyal might defect. It’s not a bad strategy at all, especially combined with their plan to cut the HoloWolf army off at the knees. If we can find the habitat science on top of that—get it away from the Wolves and into Alliance hands—we might actually make a difference in ending this war. I could help create the freedom I’ve craved for so, so long. Do what Dad never got the chance to.
“Yeah,” I say. “I promise.” I intend to keep it, and I don’t intend to need to. “Do me a favor and stay alive, though.”
He grins. “You got it.”
His eyes meet mine, and they’re stunning, but I can’t take it—there’s something there that reminds me too much of Birch. I break. “Better go.”
I take a deep breath.
FORTY-SIX
I AM NOT afraid of falling.
I am not afraid of Lonan’s arms giving out.
The stony cliff walls do not dig or scrape against my back, my toes do not go numb, my hair doesn’t stick to my face or neck, the fishing line does not nearly slice my fingers clean off from all the pressure, my inching across isn’t slow or painful, the ledge does not crumble into dust and pebbles with my every move.
Except I am. And it does. And they do.
And I’m only halfway across when I admit these to myself: halfway across when the dagger slips from the tree.
It’s not Lonan whose arms give out, after all.
I press myself into the wall at once, squeeze my eyes as tight as they’ll go. Make myself still as death. There’s shouting among the boys, Lonan calling to Phoenix, Cass cursing the dagger. It isn’t hopeless—the line is slack in my hands. It definitely isn’t strong enough to support me, but it didn’t fall completely out.
And I haven’t fallen. Yet.
Some of the shouting is directed at me: Eden, stay strong! Eden, don’t move. Eden, Eden, Eden. I don’t move, but it isn’t so much strength that holds me there as it is complete paralyzation. Closing my eyes only makes it worse, makes me dizzy, so I pick a leaf on a distant tree and focus on it until it blurs. Soon—or not soon, I’m not really sure—the line straightens out, is strong again. They’ve all piled onto Cass like we did with Lonan, with Alexa at the back.
“Slow and steady,” Lonan calls, his voice muffled by the wall he’s still pressing himself into. It’s been a while now—I only hope he isn’t too burned out to cross on his own when I’m finished.