Unravel

IT DIDN’T feel like coming home.

The Phoenix broke into the upper atmosphere of Sekoia, flying nose down, and for a moment the desert plateau flashed into view through the glass windscreen of the pilot’s cabin, dizzyingly far below, patched with tan and ocher and the bleached yellow of dead grass.

The pull of the ship’s artificial gravity, of what felt like down, didn’t correspond with the actual ground, and Elissa, harnessed into her seat in the front passenger row, just behind the copilot’s seat, had one of the moments she didn’t think she’d ever get used to, when ears and eyes and mind all disagreed, creating the momentary illusion that the ground they were going to land on was rising up like a wall in front of them.

The Phoenix’s wings had swung out the moment they breached the atmosphere, and now Cadan adjusted the flight angle so they were flying parallel to the desert plateau. Sunlit sky blazed through the glass above Elissa’s head, a wash of color that seemed, after the darkness of space, impossibly bright. A long way off, a line, a joining of land and sky, of dusty ocher and flawless blue, showed her the horizon.

Some hours before they entered Sekoia’s orbit, Cadan had set the Phoenix into what he called amphibious mode, able to go seamlessly from traveling through space to flying within the atmosphere of a planet. The main flight deck and most of the body of the ship had been sealed off, and Cadan was piloting it from a secondary cabin tucked in the side of the ship beneath the flight-deck floor.

The first time Elissa had seen the ship, it had looked like a giant silver squid, head pointing toward the sky it would launch itself into, the impression strengthened by the surrounding tentacle-like landing gear. Now she thought that with the ship’s wings out, flying belly-down, it would seem more like a wide-finned fish, the little pilot’s cabin a bulging eye on its smooth silver head.

Cadan set them on a course toward the Central Canyon City spaceport while he called ahead to initiate landing protocol. Between the ship and the far-off horizon, the upper levels of the city glinted, the sunlight bouncing off what, much closer, would reveal itself to be an eye-wateringly bright tangle of steel walkways and glass-domed roofs.

Elissa had lived there her whole life, traveling the slidewalks, using the beetle-cars, walking under the shining expanse of roofs that kept the city’s precious water from evaporating into the baked-dry desert air.

And now she found herself looking at it with alien eyes.

It wasn’t like she’d never descended toward the city from the upper atmosphere before; she’d done so twice, once returning from a school outing and once from a family vacation, and both times this view had come with a rush of familiarity, a feeling of being back where she belonged. Not this time.

But then, I don’t belong here anymore.

She’d known that, really, six weeks ago, standing on this same ship, surrounded by black, endless space, watching Sekoia dwindle to a silvery sphere of cloud and ocean. Back then, though, she’d thought she was leaving for good. That she’d never see it again.

Now, descending toward the city where she’d lived her whole life, and yet somehow looking at it as if she’d been away, not for a few weeks, but for a lifetime, she was realizing that, whatever Sekoia was to her, it was no longer home.

Elissa gave her head a little shake, refusing to be morbid. Sekoia was a whole different place than it had been some weeks ago, even for the people who still lived there. The Phoenix was Elissa’s home now. And if it was a little weird to think of a spaceship that way, well, what over the last few weeks hadn’t been weird?

Finding out three years’ worth of hallucinations were actually her telepathic link with the identical twin—Lin—she’d never known she had, discovering that Lin had escaped from the secret government-run facility where she’d been brought up, then turning fugitive with her to prevent the authorities from taking Lin back to imprisonment and torture . . . it would take a whole lot of weird to top that.

Cadan eased the Phoenix into a lower speed, angling the ship down to skirt the city itself, bringing them into a careful descent toward the spaceport.

The secondary cabin was set up, like the bridge, with a copilot’s seat next to the pilot’s, and two short rows of passenger seats behind them. Now Lin began to lean sideways from the copilot’s seat to get a better view of the main screen, then caught herself and sat back upright with a look of such conscious virtue that Elissa had to stop herself laughing out loud.

Lin was endlessly fascinated by spaceflight and determined to learn everything Cadan could teach her, but it had taken weeks of him snapping at her for Lin to finally grasp how very much he didn’t appreciate her craning over his shoulder.

Elissa thought he wouldn’t have snapped if it hadn’t been supremely obvious that Lin was only a slow learner with the things that didn’t interest her. Everything to do with actually flying the ship, she’d picked up so fast it didn’t seem possible.

Even after all these weeks, Elissa sometimes found herself taken aback by how easily her twin could work out anything technological—and how difficult she found it to remember the social norms that came instinctively to everyone else on the crew.

But then, when you’d grown up in a secret government-run facility, when you’d been taught that you weren’t even human, but a nonhuman human-sourced entity—a Spare—how could you end up like a normal person?

The Phoenix banked, sharply, as Cadan pulled her out of her glide.

What are you doing? said Lin, still—just—managing not to lean over, sitting determinedly upright in her seat. I thought we were going down to the spaceport.

Cadan pulled the Phoenix away from even the perimeter of the city, the desert plateau swooping below them. They’ve made it a no-fly zone.

You mean because there’s no space to land? Lin said.

Cadan shook his head. No. That wouldn’t warrant a no-fly order. He made a noise of irritation at his own mistake, pulling up an info-screen. "I thought air-traffic control was slow in responding. Turns out it’s because they’re not intending to respond. They’ve closed off airspace over the whole city. The spaceport’s shut down."

We saw no orbital patrols on the way in, Markus, the head—and now the only—technician, said quietly from his seat next to Elissa. He was one of the three crew members who’d remained when Cadan had discovered that Elissa and Lin were fugitives from the Sekoian authorities, when he’d made the decision to help them escape his own government, when he’d given the whole crew the opportunity to leave.

Cadan didn’t look around, but his head came up a little, alert. You think that’s why?

We could already guess they were overstretched. It makes sense, don’t you think?

Unfortunately, yes.

No orbital patrols. Something inside Elissa tightened. When she and Lin had fled Sekoia, the authorities had pursued them, forcing them eventually to seek refuge on the planet Sanctuary, the headquarters of the Interplanetary League. There, Lin had been given full human status, and the Sekoian government’s treatment of her—and of the other Spares—had been judged illegal under interplanetary law. The Interplanetary League had deposed the Sekoian government and instituted a planetary takeover.

Elissa had already known they were coming back to a planet with a disrupted social order, a planet with military law imposed on it. A planet that, when it had lost the ability to use the Spares’ psychokinetic powers, had also lost the top secret superfuel that had powered its ships into hyperspeed. A planet that no longer had a long-distance spaceflight industry of its own. It was why she and Lin were returning, to offer Lin’s electrokinesis, enhanced by their telepathic link, to support the spaceflight industry, to try to stem the slide toward planetary disaster.

But no orbital patrols? All her life had been lived in the safety that orbital patrols brought to the planet, the defense measure that meant people could go about their business without the threat of attack or abduction by space pirates. You heard awful stories sometimes, of isolated settlements on unguarded planets. . . .

Now Sekoia was one of those unguarded planets, able to institute only such protections as closing off airspace, so that any unauthorized craft could be instantly identified and repelled.

The idea of space pirates descending into Sekoia’s residential canyons made her go cold all over. If shutting down air travel would prevent that, she understood why the IPL authorities had done it, it made sense. But all the same . . .

She’d grown up within earshot of that spaceport, built on the plateau at the top of the canyon, above the residential shelf where her family’s house stood. She’d only needed to look out of her bedroom window to see the fiery streaks of ships, night and day, rising or descending against the sky.

Sekoia’s whole society had been built on their spaceflight industry. She already knew that, she knew that was why it was so catastrophic that it had been shut down. But she hadn’t expected to feel it like this, to feel the knowledge of catastrophe like a physical blow, so strongly she couldn’t speak.

"But we’ve come to help, said Lin. They’ll be IPL people, won’t they? They’ll know who we are. There was a slightly arrogant tilt to her head. Interplanetary League personnel would indeed know who she was: the fugitive Spare who’d precipitated a whole-planet takeover. Why don’t you just land, and then we can explain?"

In the seat next to Elissa, Felicia, the forty-two-year-old light-skinned woman who’d been part of the security team on the Phoenix’s original crew, smothered a laugh. Cadan slanted a half-exasperated look toward Lin. Because no-fly zones are enforced. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of being shot at for the moment. But if I can land just outside the perimeter— He tapped the screen. Ah. Damn it.

"What?"

Elissa and Lin spoke at the same time, but while Elissa’s voice came out sharp with sudden fright, Lin’s was full of nothing but curiosity.

Cadan spared a quick smile over his shoulder to Elissa. The no-fly zone extends a lot farther than I thought it would, that’s all.

We can’t land near the city? Not at all?

That’s right. His hand moved on the controls and, with a roar of its engines, the Phoenix swung right away from the city, out over the desert.

But then where are we going to go? Elissa asked.

We’ll have to land outside the no-fly zone.

But how will we get back to the city? She was trying to hold her voice steady, but couldn’t keep it free of an edge of anxiety. If it’s a no-fly zone, we won’t be able to even use the shuttlebug, will we? But we can’t walk for hours across the desert—people die trying to do that! Memories of news stories flashed across her brain—drunken college boys, schoolkids taking dares.

Not necessarily, said Cadan calmly. But it’s okay, I don’t think it’ll come to that.

But then what are we going to do? You and Felicia have to find your families, Lin and I have to find some kind of central IPL command so we can find out where we can offer help—

It’s okay. We will.

His voice was still calm, but now she could hear that it was deliberately so. She stopped, her cheeks heating.

Weeks ago she’d gone to Cadan Greythorn to get her and Lin off Sekoia. She had gone unwillingly, driven by desperation, hating to have to be indebted to her older brother’s arrogant best friend and fellow high-flying Space Flight Initiative trainee pilot.

And she’d lied to him, and cheated him, paying him with a stolen credit card, with phantom credit that didn’t really exist. Drawn danger—although she hadn’t meant to—after him and his ship and his crew. The Sekoian government had sent bounty hunters, intending to recapture Lin and destroy the link between her brain and Elissa’s. Because of her, Cadan’s ship had been damaged, most of his crew had resigned, and they’d all come closer to death than she liked to think about.

It had been the most terrifying time of her life. And probably his as well. And yet through it all, they’d come to know each other as something other than Bruce’s arrogant best friend and Bruce’s spoiled little sister. And despite all the trouble she’d brought after him, he’d fallen in love with her.

And she . . . Well, she’d found out what she should have realized ages ago, that she’d been in love with him since she was thirteen years old.

Knowing that he loved her should mean she no longer felt like a little girl around him, ignorant and inferior, without any of the intense work and training that had made him able to command a spaceship, fight off pirates, have knowledge of things like the Humane Treatment Act that had eventually helped save Lin. It should mean that. But somehow it didn’t. And she no longer had the defense of pretending she didn’t care.

There’s a training base we used to use, he said now, in possession, as always, of all the most useful information. "SFI owned it, of course, although I’m guessing it’s technically IPL property now. I can’t imagine IPL will have commandeered all the land vehicles we used to keep there. We might even be able to use the facilities there to refuel the Phoenix."

For free? Lin said, eager and interested.

Cadan laughed. Wouldn’t that be nice? Let’s see when we get there. Do me a quick scan of this route, okay, Lin? Let’s just check that there aren’t any other unexpected blocks.

Lin bounced into action, throwing open a screen and tapping in a line of commands.

Knowing the best thing she could do was not distract either of them, Elissa sat still, a well-behaved passenger, watching while Cadan dealt with everything and Lin did everything else. He’d been teaching Elissa some of what it took to fly the Phoenix over the last few weeks, but she couldn’t hope to match Lin’s lightning speed at picking up all the skills required, and it would be a long time before she’d be able to act as copilot for him—or as anything else useful.

Weeks ago she’d joined with Lin in saving them all, linking telepathically with her twin and using their joined minds to throw the ship into hyperspeed, escaping that last attack by SFI ships. If it hadn’t been for her, her link with Lin providing the extra power and steadiness that Lin needed, they wouldn’t have made it. Lin would have killed herself trying to do it by herself, and the rest of them—herself and Cadan and the three crew members—would have been blasted to pieces under the bombardment from the SFI ship.

But all she’d done was helped. It had been Lin’s power—and Lin’s willingness to sacrifice herself—that had really saved them.

Elissa bit the edge of her thumbnail as Cadan took the Phoenix out over the desert.

She had paid for half the refueling of the ship, too. And—obviously—if she hadn’t helped her twin in the first place, Lin would never have escaped Sekoia.

Elissa shifted in her seat, feeling as if the straps were digging into her. It wasn’t like she’d done nothing over the last few weeks, it was just that, compared to everything Lin and Cadan had done, that was how it seemed.

It was weird. She’d spent so much of the last few years just surviving, wanting to fit in, to be ordinary. Now, compared to the others she was sharing the ship with, she was too ordinary.

The three crew members were all specialists in several different fields—you didn’t get a place on an SFI ship without attaining excellence in a whole bunch of disciplines. Cadan had aced every test he’d ever taken and had been fast-tracked to captain duty even before he’d graduated. Lin was the superpowered version of Elissa. Among them all, Elissa was the most normal, the most ordinary.

It didn’t feel as good as she’d thought it would.

After all, when you’re with a guy like Cadan . . .

Having your big brother’s best friend, the person you’d adored since you were seven years old, fall in love with you—it still felt too amazing to be real. Amazing in a good way, obviously, but also, sometimes . . .

It wasn’t so much that she was younger than him, but that she was so far behind in terms of everything else. Going on the run with Lin meant that she hadn’t quite completed high school. But even if she had, it would have been with a bare handful of passing grades, scraped together during those years made a nightmare by attacks of pain and disorienting flashes of a life that wasn’t hers. And before that, back when her life had been flawless, easy—well, he’d said himself he’d thought she was . . . The word still hurt, and she tried not to think it, but all the same it came floating inexorably into her mind. Shallow. She’d thought he was amazing, had hero-worshipped him, glowed whenever he spoke to her. And he’d thought she was shallow.

All clear, said Lin, calm and competent at the controls. Cadan turned his head a little to smile at her, and something stabbed through Elissa. Something she tried to push away before she needed to acknowledge what it was.

Lin was her sister. Her twin, who over the time since they’d met had become more important than anything, more important than Elissa’s home or family. She might be struggling with jab after nasty jab of insecurity, but she was not going to start feeling jealous of her own sister.

And we’re there, said Cadan.

Elissa dragged her thoughts back under control as the Phoenix banked again. The straps tightened against her body. They’d been in Sekoia’s atmosphere long enough for the ship’s gravity to switch off; it was Sekoia’s own gravitational field she was feeling now.

The Phoenix skimmed downward, circling as she lost height, and under them the desert floor swooped and slid away. Then a complex of buildings rose up beneath them: stone-built, squat and utilitarian, connected by steel tunnels.

Hang tight for landing, said Cadan, and, as sand rose in clouds and rocket-fuel smoke billowed up around the ship, enveloping the glass and filling, for a moment, the viewscreens with a blur of yellow-tinged smog, the Phoenix touched down on Sekoian soil.

Lin turned slightly in her chair. The lit-up look she got whenever she did anything to do with flying the ship had dimmed. She was biting her lip, her face tight, and Elissa instantly forgot all other preoccupations.

If it was weird for her to return to Sekoia, what must it be like for Lin, being back on the planet where she’d been trapped and tortured?

Elissa unsnapped her harness, wriggled out from the tangle of straps and leaned forward to put her hand on Lin’s shoulder. Lin reached her own hand up to clasp Elissa’s.

They’re gone, said Elissa. The facility staff, the people who ordered what they did to you—they’ll be in prison by now.

Lin’s head moved a tiny bit. Not all of them.

"Yeah, okay, not all. But most. And any of them who haven’t been arrested yet—they’ll be keeping a completely low profile. They’re not going to want to come near us."

Behind them, Ivan the chef, huge and gorilla armed, added, And they’d be sorry if they did. No one’s going to be touching you girls without your permission, not anymore.

Markus laughed, a wordless acknowledgment of what they’d seen Lin do, of what they knew her electrokinesis could accomplish.

Under Elissa’s hand, Lin’s fingers relaxed a little.

The sand and smoke cleared. Blue sky and brilliant sun blazed once again through the glass. Cadan ran a quick hand over the controls, turning everything down to maintenance level, a standby setting that would save fuel without shutting the ship down entirely. They’d all learned over the last few weeks not to make any premature assumptions about safety.

Which was just as well, because when they’d gone through the dilating door that led from the cabin, climbed down the narrow staircase, then through two more safety doors and an external air lock, and emerged into bright, dusty sunlight, they found themselves surrounded by an armed crowd.

CADAN’S, MARKUS’S, and Felicia’s hands flashed to their own weapons, but the crowd’s leader was quicker. There was a gun in his hand, a real gun, steel-loaded, not the short-range blasters spaceship crews carried. He held it leveled at Cadan’s face.

Drop your weapons.

The crew obeyed. Next to Elissa, Lin went tense. Elissa didn’t dare make any movement that could be construed as a move for a weapon—like she’d have one—or she’d have stretched out a hand to clasp her twin’s. How did they get here so fast? The crowd must have come from the buildings, of course, but she would never have expected them to move so quickly—or to react like this.

We’re not a threat, said Cadan steadily, straightening from laying his blaster on the sand. Look at the ship. It’s one of SFI’s. You can see we’re not pirates.

The man gave a bark of laughter. "Like pirates are all we’ve got to worry about? Do you even know what planet you’ve landed on?"

Cadan kept his hands up and open, an unthreatening posture. I can see it’s not the same planet I left a few weeks ago.

A few weeks? And you’ve chosen to come back now? The man’s lips curled into what was nearly a smile, although the gun stayed pointed at them. He was about Elissa’s father’s age. He looked rough edged, unshaven and not altogether clean, like she’d always imagined criminals, illegal immigrants, but he couldn’t be either—his accent was that of the upper sections of Sekoian society, and his manner seemed one accustomed to authority. This must be quite the homecoming.

Cadan grinned a little. You could say that.

Do they know, out there? Do they know anything of what’s going on in our world? Grim lines drew themselves into his face.

They did about a month ago, said Cadan. I have no way of knowing what the coverage is like now.

A stir, a low-level angry mutter, came from the crowd. Elissa caught scraps of speech. . . . betting they don’t. ". . . think that’s all? I’m betting they know and they just don’t care."

So what are you doing here? the man asked. Your ship’s SFI, and you’ve got the SFI look so I’m inclined to believe it—what the hell are you doing coming back here?

My family’s here, said Cadan. It was the truth, but only part of the truth, and he made sure not to look at either of the twins as he said it. Tension hummed within Elissa. These people—they were armed, and pretty hostile so far. If they found out who she and Lin were, that they were the twins who’d precipitated the whole situation, what would their reaction be? Elissa’s family had accepted IPL’s offer of relocation within days of the takeover, getting them out of the reach of possible reprisals from a furious population. And they’d been at risk just for being related to her and Lin. If discovered, she and Lin would be at a whole lot more of a risk.

They’d talked about it—she and Lin, Cadan and the crew—before they made the final decision to return. If the twins’ names or faces had ever actually appeared on the newcasts that had gone out all over the star system, Elissa wasn’t sure she’d have dared to come back.

Given the supersensitive nature of the situation, though, as well as Elissa and Lin’s underage status, interplanetary protection agreements had come into effect, agreements that had extended to the whole of the crew. In all the newscasts Elissa had seen before they left Sanctuary, the Phoenix had been referred to only as an SFI-owned ship, and Cadan as a young SFI pilot. Sometimes, depending on the channel, a young maverick pilot—and once, "a young heroic pilot."

Elissa knew she couldn’t count on their identities staying secret forever—at some point there was bound to be an information leak—but at least they weren’t returning to Sekoia as instant celebrities. And they’d taken their own precautions. Lin had kept her fake tan and had rebleached her hair, continuing to wear it swinging sleek and straightened around her face, a contrast to Elissa’s tumble of dark waves. It was impossible to conceal all the things that made them identical, but they’d done their best to ensure they didn’t betray themselves by being mirror images.

Your family? So you’ve come to get them out? the man asked Cadan.

Elissa sensed Cadan stiffen, and as his tension reached her, she saw the Phoenix how this crowd must see it—as an escape route from a world tearing itself apart. If they forced Cadan to take them on board, forced him off the planet, and if in the meantime the authorities shut off airspace over the whole of Sekoia, then they might never get back. They might never find out what was happening to Cadan’s family, they might never be able to help avert their world unraveling into chaos.

Not exactly, said Cadan.

Then what? No—forget it. The man made a gesture so impatient it hovered on the edge of anger. I’m done playing Twenty Questions. Where’s your ID?

Cadan hesitated—only for a moment, but the man’s grip shifted very slightly on his gun, a silent message.

Inner jacket pocket, said Cadan. Elissa’s throat tightened. They hadn’t planned on this, hadn’t planned on having to give up their identities to anyone other than the IPL authorities.

Fine, said the man. Undo your jacket and pull it fully open before you reach in, all right? And don’t think we won’t shoot.

I don’t. Cadan’s voice was dry as he reached for the zip on his dark blue SFI jacket. It crossed Elissa’s mind to wonder why he still wore his uniform, now that SFI was no more. Was it just for situations like this, to give an immediate indication that he wasn’t a pirate? Or was it because, despite everything, despite what SFI had done, he could not yet let go of them, did not know how to see himself as someone other than an SFI employee? He has to. He can’t hold on to something that was false, wrong; he can’t keep feeling he owes them for his training, for his job—not after what they did to Lin.

But when you’d defined yourself as part of SFI since you were eleven, how long would it take you to let go?

Cadan flipped the jacket open.

The man nodded toward him. Okay, Bryn. Get his ID. His eyes focused, unblinking, on Cadan’s. Try anything and I’ll—

Shoot, said Cadan with a snap. Yes, I know.

Another man—Bryn—stepped forward, keeping to the side, out of the way of the gun, slid two fingers into Cadan’s pocket and pulled out his ID card, then stepped carefully back.

The first man took it, flipped it over. His eyebrows shot up. He tilted the card away from himself, then sideways, checking the tiny holograms that appeared at different angles, tokens that the card wasn’t a fake, then held it up, shutting one eye to check the glinting edge of the tissue-thin metal sheet within it.

He gave a sharp look back at Cadan, eyebrows slanting into a frown. "Seriously? Bright young cadet, with the luck to have sole command of a ship and to be safely off-planet for the whole of this crisis? You decided to come back?"

Cadan watched him, still tense, wary. Like I said, my family’s here.

You didn’t have strings to pull to get them out?

Cadan’s mouth twisted. You’ll find that off-planet, SFI strings don’t work as well as they used to.

The man gave a short laugh. "You’ll find they don’t work too well on Sekoia, either. We have ex-SFI people here, Captain, taking refuge from a city that used to damn well worship them. Here. He flipped the card back to Cadan, who caught it. The man holstered his gun and threw a glance toward the crowd. No danger. He’s SFI, all right. Rising star among the cadets, if you can believe it."

There was nothing but some wry amusement in his tone. But the other man, Bryn, jerked his head up, staring at Cadan. "Which rising star?"

Greythorn, the first man said, shrugging.

"Cadan Greythorn? The pilot who went off-grid forty-five days ago? The information-blackout one?"

The first man frowned. Yeah, you’re right, that’s the one, isn’t it? Bryn, what—

But Bryn’s eyes had left Cadan and swept straight to Elissa and Lin. Elissa saw the second it happened, the second the realization hit him. His gaze flicked from her to her twin, taking in all the similarities that their different hairstyles and clothes had obscured to start with, then he turned to the other man. "It’s him. He’s that pilot. No wonder SFI wanted a blackout on him! He didn’t just go off-grid, he went to IPL. And those two—Miguel, for God’s sake, no danger?"

For a moment Miguel stared at him. Then his expression changed too, going from realization to shock, and then to horror. He looked back at Cadan. Tell me you haven’t, he said.

What? In contrast to the horror in the faces of the other men, Cadan’s expression remained blank. But Elissa knew it was deliberate, a mask over his own emotions.

Anyone else, if we’d met anyone else, they’d have had no idea which pilot Cadan was. We had to run into SFI people, people who heard about Cadan taking the ship off-grid, people who’d be able to put two and two together. . . .

Tell me you haven’t brought them back to Sekoia, said Miguel. "That runaway girl and her clone. Tell me you haven’t brought them to my camp."

Anger scalded through Elissa, eclipsing—for an instant—everything else. Don’t call her a clone!

I did bring them, said Cadan, his voice flat and calm. Tell me the problem.

That stir came again, a ripple of anger, of tension, running through the crowd.

"The problem? Miguel made an exasperated sound almost like a laugh. God, you have no idea, do you?"

Like I said, deep space for about a month. This time a slight snap came though Cadan’s words. The last newscasts we got were back on Sanctuary. So tell me. We’ve come back to help—tell me what’s been going on.

Help? Miguel gave that laugh that wasn’t a laugh. I’d say we’re pretty much beyond help at this point—and when I say ‘we,’ I mean you as well. The best chance you have is to get back on your ship and get back into space. Unless that one ship is the forerunner of a fully functioning fleet, you don’t have anything to offer that’s going to help anyone.

You’d be surprised, Cadan said. Apprehension prickled up Elissa’s spine. He was talking about her and Lin. Which made sense—that was why they’d returned, to offer their combined power to Sekoia’s space force, to help stop Sekoia sliding into poverty and chaos. But she’d never expected to be offering it under these circumstances, to someone who seemed so sure that by coming back they’d done everything wrong. And although their combined power had saved them before . . . we still don’t understand it. Not properly. We’ve tried to practice, but we didn’t dare do much on board the ship, and the link still comes and goes—it’s not there all the time, and it doesn’t always seem to work the same way. . . .

Surprised? Really? You sure it’s not you who’s going to be surprised? Miguel jabbed his finger toward Elissa and Lin. You think you’re going to be able to help us? You don’t get back on your ship, you’ll have enough to do trying to keep those kids alive for the next twenty-four hours.

Elissa’s stomach dropped. She reached for Lin’s hand and felt her twin’s fingers close tightly around her own.

So tell me, repeated Cadan. His voice had flattened back to calmness. If Elissa hadn’t heard that note in his voice before, if she hadn’t known it was a deliberate closing off of his emotions, she’d have thought he hadn’t heard what the other man had said. He flicked a look toward Elissa and Lin. They’re in danger? Who from? Most people don’t have SFI inside knowledge—they’re not going to work out their identity as quickly as you did.

She’s a Spare, isn’t she? Miguel said. "Who isn’t she in danger from?"

All over Elissa’s back, her skin tightened.

There are at least three groups who’ve made it their stated mission to wipe out all Spares, Miguel continued. And if the Spares hadn’t been rushed into safe houses, they’d be well on their way there.

Cadan made as if to ask something else, but Elissa was ahead of him. The man hadn’t said specifically that anything had happened to Spares yet, but those words—they’d be well on their way there—clanged, a warning bell, in her head.

Have they managed it? she said. Have they managed to kill any Spares?

Cadan took a step closer to her, and his hand settled, warm and steady, on her back.

Miguel’s expression flickered, suddenly uncertain, as if he were deciding how—or whether—to answer her. Her throat closed, and for a few long, horrible seconds all she could do was wait, speechless, hoping he’d tell her the truth straight out and she wouldn’t have to argue and demand with this awful weight of dread inside her.

Some, Miguel said.

How? Her throat was still frozen shut. The question came out as scarcely more than a silent movement of her lips.

Some were shot. By snipers, we assume, when the Spares were on their way out of the facility where they’d been kept. And some of the flyers taking them to the safe houses have been attacked. Not all of them went down, but . . . He lifted a shoulder, a gesture that would have looked careless if it hadn’t been for the grim cast of his mouth.

Falling, trapped, safety programming and parachutes and defenses all useless, all of them going down with you. For a moment Elissa had to screw her eyes shut, concentrate on just breathing. It didn’t do any good to let herself think about it.

In— She had to stop, swallow, start again. Here? In this city?

Miguel shook his head. Attacks, yes. No deaths. Then, heavily, Not so far.

Not so far. Oh God, and I agreed to Lin coming back. I agreed to her coming back here, where there are people who want to kill her. They’d known there could be danger, they’d known it, but there was a difference between knowing it as a possibility and hearing—oh God—that people were dying.

Why? came Lin’s voice from beside her, her voice holding all the calm Elissa had tried for and hadn’t been able to manage. Why are people killing Spares? And who are they?

Still cold with shock, Elissa turned her head to look at her sister. Lin looked straight-backed and alert, as if she’d just asked a question to which there was sure to be an interesting answer. How does she do that? She’s just heard that people like her are being murdered, and you’d think she’d found out only that they’re being—oh, given, like, haircuts.

Out of place though Lin’s reaction seemed, the fact that she, at least, didn’t seem frightened had its effect on Elissa, too. The tightness in her throat eased.

It was Bryn who answered her. God knows who they are. Well, God and IPL, we guess, but no one’s telling us. And as for why . . . He shrugged. If it weren’t for Spares, we wouldn’t be in this mess, would we?

"If it wasn’t for SFI, you wouldn’t be in this mess! Elissa burst out, but Miguel interrupted. There’s no time for this now. We have to get underground. Even if you—he nodded toward Cadan—get away immediately, if you’ve been tracked, if someone thinks you’ve left the clones with us, thinks we’re harboring them, we’re dead ourselves."

His voice was urgent, and something close to panic showed in his face. In that one moment, Elissa saw clearly what she hadn’t picked up on before. She’d gotten it wrong: Miguel wasn’t accustomed to exercising authority. He’d taken authority, maybe because he was the most competent, but he had no practice in it. And now he was trying to handle a situation for which he not only had no experience, but also no skills that had prepared him for dealing with it.

But he said they had SFI people here. If there are other SFI personnel around, then how come it’s him acting as leader? Okay, so SFI doesn’t exist anymore, but still—where are the officers? Where’s the structure all gone to? If any of these people are SFI, they’ll have been working there for years—all that organization can’t just melt into chaos like that, not this quickly. They need to take responsibility for what’s been done to Spares—they need to make sure it doesn’t happen again!

Cadan’s voice remained calm. Okay, so there’re groups—several groups—targeting Spares? Because they blame them for the current situation. And those sheltering them too?

Bryn gave him a bitter look. Should have stayed off-planet, right?

When Cadan glanced at him, his eyes were like blue steel. Cut the posturing. You’re saying we’re in danger here—and we’ve put you in danger too? His gaze swept the crowd. Then what are they doing standing here? This is an SFI base—it’s equipped with underground shelters. Get these people into them!

As if that was all it took, Miguel jerked into action. He snapped an order to Bryn, who swung away to relay instructions to a handful of official-looking people—mostly the ones, Elissa realized, who were holding weapons.

Had been holding weapons. They weren’t bothering now, tucking guns back into belt holsters and inside jackets, focusing instead on shepherding sections of the crowds in different directions, back inside the buildings.

Miguel looked back at Cadan. You need to go, he said. They’ll have clocked the ship entering the atmosphere—it’s likely they’ll have tracked it here. You could come in the shelters with us, but if they break through this time . . . There was despair in his face. Captain, listen to me. I have to keep these people alive. If they break into our shelter but neither you nor the clones are with us, at least—

Cadan interrupted him. This time? The base has been attacked before? How many times?

Since I got here? Six. Not all from the same group, though, as far as we can work out.

You can tell? How?

Miguel shrugged. Firepower. Some of them are using SFI craft. Some of them have nothing more than target-practice guns strapped to souped-up beetle-cars.

Markus gave an unexpected choke of laughter. Seriously?

Miguel looked at him, bleak. It’s funny when you’re not living it. We’ve got the shelters, and the aboveground buildings are pretty well fortified, but if they get a direct hit on our solar cells, or the purifier . . . He nodded toward the familiar shape of the half-buried water-recycling station.

Up until this point Elissa hadn’t thought about that—she was still struggling to deal with the