What have I done?

  The thought clung to Roman, and he tried desperately to shake it.

  I did what I was told. This isn’t—can’t—be my fault.

  Roman was alone in the com room, save for his questing despair. He hunched over the console reading line after line of code, searching for an answer even as he knew there wasn’t enough time to piece it together. Still, maybe there was something.

  Ninety-six years.

  He was supposed to wake to celebration, embraced by his Martian brothers as he delivered Daiko Hitori’s meck to the resistance, one step closer to cutting Asparia’s leash.

  What went wrong? The Razorback made it to the belt, but this wasn't the right asteroid—it wasn’t even the right year. Why?

  The log glitched, parameters resetting. He bit down the urge to smash the screen. This was the third time the system froze—always when it reached fifty years back—which was about the time Daiko died, if Hitori was telling the truth.

  Roman couldn’t shake the suspicion that this was all an elaborate gimmick—something to get him to admit his treachery of the Westwood crew. Even the locked doors lining the corridor were suspect now—no view ports to confirm they were even in space at all, just the word of a—what did he call it, ultimente?—program he couldn’t quite look in the eyes.

  Roman rubbed his temples in slow circles, syncing breath to movement, trying to calm his nerves and quiet his conscience.

  Daiko…

  All those years alone, and the man probably wondered what could’ve happened to him and his crew—all the while Roman slept peacefully. Did Daiko figure it out? In his time alone aboard the Razorback, did he guess that his martian forger was a member of the Circle, the main body of Martian resistance, and was responsible for tripping the wire when the Dragon finally left his den?

  Exhaustion and despair gnawed at him until a vision began to take shape, a delirious memory growing from the walls like weeds…

  Dust…Clouds…Everything red…

  A storm raged, ready to snatch him with a gust—or leave him to the Asparian patrol on his heels.

  At ten years old, he was already a runner for the Circle, already a dozen mission stones on his shelf. That was why he knew—long before the eighteen brothers and sisters sprinting beside him—that all of them were going to die.

  The winds swallowed the light as Asparian rovers filled with soldiers ground the earth raw, engines howling as they created a barrier with their vehicles, and fencing the fleeing children in. Roman pressed his back against one of his brothers—shorter, younger—held a trembling knife against armored soldiers who leapt from the rovers with glee.

  Roman’s blade was stark still.

  Three soldiers approached him as an even darker rolling cloud swallowed the open plain. Dust grinded against his eyes, but he held them open against the pain as bodies lunged at him.

  Ten seconds, and it was finished. The storm released him bloodied and choking for air.

  Explosions. Gunfire. Soldiers dropping as though their strings had been cut. He saw it all, though his ears held only the pulse of his blood.

  Numb, he looked at the four bodies laid about him as though arranged for naps. Each of them bled from large gashes, including his brother, who poured blood from a wound in his armpit. He looked at the soldiers again, each with a gun or baton held in a death grip.

  No knives.

  The thought laid into him like frost.

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  Then came three more explosions, and the veil broke. Roman looked up from his knees to see Asparian rovers fleeing the field.

  The storm thinned, and there was Keats—Circle’s field commander—dust-red cloak billowing, cigarette ember burning bright. He surveyed the wreckage with stone eyes and dirt grinding under his boot.

  People crept in and out of fox holes hauling scrap underground. Roman barely noticed—his eyes fixed on his brothers and sisters being dragged and gently placed into a pile.

  “Get him up,” Keats said to him, voice gravel-thick.

  For a moment Roman clung to hope—maybe his brother was alive, maybe he just needed a hand. But the wounds spoke twice as loud seeing them for the second time.

  Keats scoffed, then kicked a rock in the direction of the fleeing Asparian patrols.

  “You think this is bad? Be glad they kept their mecks behind.”

  Roman’s stomach turned, but his body refused to give up the precious rations he shared with the others.

  Keats moved closer, blocking him from view.

  “I killed him, didn’t I?” Roman muttered. “It was me.”

  He looked up, feeling infinitely small beneath the grizzled man. Their eyes locked, and a long silence was held between them. Then Keats pinched his cigarette, and dragged deep.

  “You defended yourself—killed three of theirs, and only one casualty—that’s how I see it. Odds don’t get better than that for us.”

  “But I… “Was Keats ignoring what Roman had done—or worse—was he justifying it? Anger rose in him, needing to hurt something.

  Keats spoke quickly yet quietly, a cloud of cigarette smoke covering his face for a moment before the wind stole it away.

  “It was an accident. Doesn’t make it right. But you did what you had to. You survived.” He put a hand on his shoulder, and Roman thought he could feel the planet turning beneath him. “Every time they squeeze us, we need to endure. It’s the only way we’ll ever be free.”

  He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and handed it to Roman. Roman wasn’t sure how he regained his composure, but he stood and grabbed the cigarette.

  “The trick isn’t to inhale.” Roman coughed anyway. “You’ll get used to it.”

  Roman took another, smaller drag, restraining the cough this time. Keats reclaimed the stub, snuffed it on his tongue, and pocketed the remains.

  “Now put your brother with the rest or his family. It’s time to move.”

  Roman hefted the body toward the pile while silent tears dried on his cheeks. Halfway there, Keats called out: “You’re in my truck on the ride back, kid. Double time, let’s go!”

  Roman jolted awake with a shake of his head. The coms room walls snapped back into place.

  Wasn’t right… We survive…We endure…I have to figure out what happened, I have to get to my people.

  The click of fine shoes in the hall froze him. Instinct took over—he snapped the feed shut and shoved a hand into the main panel.

  “Taking your time?”

  Roman glanced back, feigning surprise. Suraj stood there, immaculate again in his suit yet comically out of place.

  “Just wrapping up,” Roman said, fingers hovering over the lever.

  “Wait.” Suraj’s voice was closer now, right behind him.

  “We need to divert the power, remember?”

  “I remember. I’ll take care of it.”

  Roman kept his hand above the lever, looking up at Suraj like a man staring at a cliff face. He raised a brow.“Got something to do?”

  “Yes,” Suraj answered.

  Oh, how he’d love to ruin this man’s day.

  “You got it. Boss.” Roman slid back from the console and started toward the exit. “Just don’t forget to kill the power.”

  His pulse hammered as he left, but he didn’t look back. For all that laid behind, he had no idea what lay ahead, yet go into the unknown he must.

  Suraj slid into the log bank and activated the recording. His face filled the screen.

  “My name is Suraj Murphy, second lieutenant of the Orden Bravista assigned to Admiral Christian Halbert’s retinue.”

  He recited what he knew—what he could confirm anyway, and finally what he could only estimate. Everything from Hitori’s reports to his own validation and sanctuary codes.

  He liked reports. Orderly checklists, one box after another. But this was no ordinary briefing. As he described the crew, the obstacles ahead seemed from possible.

  “Glassware inactive. Battery failure likely. It won’t hold charge. Alexi Metos’ belongings unaccounted for. Presumed lost with the rest of the crew during…whatever diverted the mission.”

  He hesitated. How did you record something no one would believe? And who would ever find this log? Still—duty demanded a trail and he had to do something.

  Realizing he’d gone silent, he looked back into the camera.

  “The following is my personal assessment. Though I have no evidence, I suspect the Razorback’s deviation and crash in the belt were premeditated. The timing is too exact, our circumstances and survival too precise. I will continue investigating while we maintain course for Alma Prime, intent on delivering cargo.”

  Out of time, he sat back. If only he’d found something of Alexi—some clue besides suspicion, but it was not the most insubstantial ally he’d ever had.

  “Second Lieutenant Suraj Murphy signing off. Godspeed.”

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