Page 117 of Cage of Starlight
Tory has no time to ask what for. Travin’s fist collides with his face, and pain bursts in bright colors as he crashes into dirt and leaf litter on his side. He tastes blood. His tongue darts out to find a split lip. “What?” he demands, belatedly.
Standing above him and shaking his left hand, Travin shrugs—only halfway apologetic. “Realism. You think they’d believe you found your way off a battlefield and all the way back looking so clean and put together?”
He’s hardlyclean.Tory wipes his expression blank. Stares at Travin until the guy shifts his weight and pushes out an awkward chuckle.
“Okay, fine,” he confesses. “But listen, it was like . . . a really flimsy punch, because I had to do it left-handed. Spark made me promise to mess up your pretty face. You’re not her target of choice, of course. That would have been—uh.” He lifts his bandaged hand. “Anyway. Good luck.”
Then he’s gone, and Tory is alone.
He’s fine. He has a job to do. Sitting up, Tory wipes blood from his lip and brushes mud and leaves from his clothes, for all the good it does. They’re filthy beyond help, stiff with seawater and three-plus days of dirt, sweat, and worse. Given the option, he’d kill for a shower.
Tory stares through the woods and up the road where the sleeping cannons and the high walls around the Compound wait. Home, unsweet home.
He’ll tear this prison down himself.
*
Sena and the others find the patrols faster than they hoped. A pillar of campfire smoke gives them away.
He and Niela refine their plan as they travel. If there’s a full unit, they’ll commandeer the services of its Porter to get Niela to theCompound. With her Core, she’ll be able to travel freely within its walls to warn her mother and maybe even Tory. Iri and Sena will use whatever other means of transport they find.
They come to the camp from the trees, the dampness of fallen leaves muffling their steps.
A couple soldiers playing cards on an overturned box startle as Sena walks from the woods. He shouldn’t be surprised. His arm and shoulder are dark with blood. He probably looks more like a corpse than most corpses.
The soldiers jerk to clumsy attention. A few cards flutter to the ground, and Sena digs deep to find the perfect soldier Kirlov created in him. It doesn’t fit well on him anymore, if it ever did. “At ease,” he says. “Where’s the officer in charge?”
“Out on a search, sir. We—uh, reports of activity in the area. Are you . . .?”
“Your Porter,” Sena barks. “I’ve come into possession of information I urgently need to convey to General Renstein. I need immediate transport to the Compound.” Hopefully they don’t know much about him, don’t realize hecan’tbe ’ported.
“Sir . . .?”
The nearest soldier, thick and dark haired, steps forward. “Our Porter’s out scouting. She’ll be back in a few hours.”
The Compound will be burning in a few hours, and Tory with it. “I saidurgent, soldier.”
The second guy speaks up. “Why not radio? You—where’s your communicator?”
Sena’s gloved hand slides over his empty pocket, and the soldier’s eyes linger on the blood dried stiff into his glove. “It’s gone. And the information is sensitive; better to deliver it in person.”
The soldier casts a narrow-eyed glance into the trees, and Sena’s stomach twists. Heknowshe looks suspicious, sounds suspicious.
“Sure, all right. Sir,” the dark-haired soldier adds. “Gimme a second, maybe they can send someone.” He paces over to the long-distance communication rig set up in the rear of the personnel truck. Sena hears snatches of conversation. “Yeah, ours is out on patrol,” and “Yessir, says it’s urgent. He’s a real mess, too, so I’m inclined to believe him. If you have anyone you could spare . . .” He waves Sena over.
The first step nearly fells him. His vision blanks, knees wobbling, but he stays on his feet.
He has to. They have so little time. The world flickers back in, grayed-out and flat, just as he’s arriving at the truck. He grabs the back of the truck to support himself.
“Got some questions before they’ll send a Porter out.” The soldier lifts his clunky headphones off and passes them over. “Here, I’ll trade you.”
Sena steps in front of the bulky rig, dropping the hand not holding him up over the dials.
The earphones blanket the ambient noise of the world in sweet silence—so when the voice comes through the headphones and pierces Sena’s eardrums, it’s everything.
It’s his whole world.
Cold and crystal clear, Kirlov’s voice says,“Our Porters are indisposed. I’ve been informed there’s urgent information you wish to convey. This is a secure channel. Report.”
