Their Fractured Light (Starbound #3)(86)

We have been waiting for so long, here in the place where the blue-eyed man first found us. The researchers all vanished long ago, but not before their minds crumbled, leaving us in an empty building filled only with the ghosts of madmen. We wait, growing weary, growing weak.

Then the silence is shattered, a great tearing in the sky that breaks the very stars—a ship appears where before there was only the remnant of the blue-eyed man’s experiments.

The ship is falling, and we are too weak to stop it. It carries thousands of souls, any one of whom could free us from this hell—and they will all die.

And then, a flash of light. A glimpse of something familiar. Blue eyes, and a face that once laughed while washed in the glow of the rift. A soldier with her whose soul is still somewhere in that garden, clutching that book of poems.

We have just enough strength to nudge their escape pod so that it skims through the atmosphere safely, just enough strength to watch as they take their first shaking steps on the surface of this world.

We have just enough strength to hope.

THOUGH THE STREETS ARE ABANDONED, we stay close as we make our way toward the crash site and the trauma center whose records tell us that they have Dr. Sanjana Rao. I’m betting that, tactically, it’d be better for either Jubilee or Tarver to scout on ahead for potential threats, but neither one suggests it. They both have their guns drawn, though, and Tarver and Flynn are each wearing one of my cobbled-together shields, tucked inside their military-supplied vests. In theory, if the rest of us stay close to them, within their range, we’ll be shielded from the whisper. I’m praying I duplicated the field in LaRoux’s device correctly, and they’re broadcasting the little electrical pulses we need to scramble any attempts by the whisper to take us over. On the upside, if I’m wrong, there’s every chance I’ll never know about it.

Every pocket in the vest Kumiko’s people gave me is crammed with tools and equipment, and tucked inside it is the slim aluminized bag I took with me to the Daedalus under my suit jacket. I wanted to make sure none of my equipment could be damaged by anything magnetic on the ship if we ended up taking a cross-country route to the rift.

All our attempts to reach Sanjana by phone, by net, have come up empty. We can’t tell if it’s because the networks are still crammed, or if it’s because she’s too injured to reply, or if it’s because she’s not even there, and the records are wrong. Everything, including the hastily erected trauma centers to deal with crash victims, is in chaos—and we can’t afford to wait for her to reply. Without more information about how to destroy the rift, we’re flying blind. I’ve sent her a package of information that’ll download to her account if she gets a connection—coordinates for the center we’re heading to in the hopes of finding her, schematics for my homemade whisper shields, and small details that can only have come from Tarver, as a sign she’s dealing with allies. I pray she gets it, pray she trusts it. Pray she’s even still alive.

I keep scanning my companions each time I get a little prickle of the hairs on the back of my neck, but the shields seem to be working. Then again, would I even know if it happened, unless I was looking directly into their eyes? Not for the first time, I wish I had Sofia’s insight. She’d have some body language shortcut to tell instantly if one of our group was about to turn.

But she looks just as scared as I feel.

We stick to the smaller streets, forced to take long detours around sections of the upper city that have caved in and crushed the mid-city below. At first we see others only in the distance, too far away to tell if they’re survivors or husks. But as the smell of burning chemicals grows stronger, as the ash in the air thickens and our path becomes more and more littered with debris, more dead bodies sprawled where they fell, it becomes obvious: the only people other than us still moving around this close to the crash aren’t people at all anymore.

“That’s the fifth one we’ve seen taking this exact path,” Sofia whispers, breaking a long silence as we take cover against the side of a ruined bank headquarters and watch a shuffling husk move across the street. Even the sirens are quiet now. The only noises are the occasional, far distant rumble of some part of the city caving in and crumbling into the space below.

“They’re sweeping the city,” Jubilee says in a low voice. “This pattern, I recognize it.”

She’s looking at Tarver, who’s watching, grim-faced, and it takes me a long moment to figure out why. “Lilac learned it from me,” he says quietly. “Standard search grid.”

“She’s looking for us,” I murmur, as the husk—a middle-aged man, balding and clad in a worn business suit, someone you’d never look at twice—vanishes around the corner.

“Hopefully she won’t be able to see us with the shields,” Sofia says, straightening out of her crouch. “We’ve got to move quietly. One or two, we can deal with. But if we run into a group of them…” She swallows but doesn’t finish the sentence.

She doesn’t have to. It’s all too easy to imagine what a big enough group of these shambling, empty-eyed things could do to us. Soldiers who feel no pain, and no remorse at causing pain.

Up the street is a trio of police hovers settled on the pavement in a blockade formation, just in front of a line of temporary barriers. The crash perimeter. In theory, no one but rescue personnel is allowed through—the sign propped against one of the cars states, in big block letters, NO ENTRY BEYOND THIS POINT, and another warns, STRUCTURAL INSTABILITY. Despite the emptiness of the city, it’s still a shock to see this setup abandoned. There ought to be police officers and city officials barring the way.