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.”
THE MUD GRABS AT ME to drag me down. My lungs burn, pain knifing down my side with every breath as I force myself to scramble through the swamp. This trek is bad enough on foot at full strength, but I feel like I’ve been hit by a transport. One hour stretches into two, into three, and then I stop counting.
If I could’ve waited, I would have. But I can still see the footage from the bar, the loop playing over and over on the insides of my eyelids whenever I let them close: I see myself turn in toward Jubilee, smiling, starting to speak, and then it jumps back to the beginning. If I could’ve stolen a boat, I would have done that too. But the docks were crawling with patrols, and while my stolen uniform might have gotten me by, the bar footage was playing on the side of the docking shed.
I tried to make this journey before, on my own, just once. Then, I didn’t have smoke in my lungs; but I was also only eight years old, fleeing the transports waiting to take me to an off-world orphanage. And I was found only a few kilometers outside of town by Fianna patrols looking for me.
This time I have no one to help me get home. I shove past a bank of reeds, my breath rasping, ears straining for any sound behind me. I can’t afford to rest for more than a few seconds. My head spins, and for once I can’t tell if the lights sparking in front of my eyes are wisps or my own hazy eyesight.
I push on through waist-high muck and sluggish black water. I wade and swim and when I can’t stand I crawl, until I’m covered with mud then washed clean again.