Jrake

  The elevator rockets up so fast my stomach is about three floors behind me. I grip the rail like my life depends on it—because if this thing malfunctions, I’ll be a personalized smear on the ceiling.

  Ding. Doors open. I bolt.

  Through the pristine, white-lit hallway. Past the reinforced gss walls overlooking a world that’s rapidly going off the rails. The closer I get, the worse the pit in my stomach feels.

  Ortol’s office.

  The door is wide open.

  Inside—

  Absolute carnage.

  Papers scattered like a hurricane had a personal vendetta. Furniture overturned. Gss shattered into a minefield of jagged pieces, catching the light like this is some detective’s murder scene. His sleek, ultra-modern desk? Barely standing.

  I exhale through my nose, running a hand through my hair.

  This always happens when something breaks Ortol in half.

  I don’t even know where to start. Too many problems. Too many questions. Maybe with Triton?

  But before I can open my mouth, Ortol moves.

  Not walks. Rushes.

  Face pale, red-eyed, dark circles so deep you could lose a damn spaceship in them. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days—and knowing him? He hasn’t. His hands cmp onto my arms, shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  “They—” He stops. Swallows hard. Starts again. “They ugh at me.” His voice is hoarse. Raw. “The gaxy officials. They call me the world mayor who lost to some half-witted fishes.”

  I blink. What.

  He lets out a hollow ugh and steps back, gripping his own arms like he’s trying to hold himself together. “They say I let them slip through my fingers. That I let this happen." His voice cracks. "They nuked the poles, Jrake. They drowned cities.”

  His breath shudders.

  “Millions.”

  The word drops like an anvil. And then Ortol does something I haven’t seen since we were kids.

  He cries.

  Not a dignified, manly tear. Not the silent, brooding type of sadness you see in movies. No.

  Ortol breaks.

  I stand there, helpless, watching my oldest friend crumple under the weight of it all. He turns away, stepping toward the window, the city stretching far below—still intact. For now. His voice is barely a whisper.

  “Do you know what you do when you fail this hard?”

  His fingers curl into fists. His shoulders shake.

  “You kill yourself.”

  The room stills.

  Then, Ortol darts to the table, snatching something—

  I don't let him pull the trigger.

  I bitch sp him.

  Hard.

  His head jerks to the side, a sharp gasp escaping him.

  “Get it together.” I shove him backward, forcing him into his chair, ignoring the dazed look he gives me.

  I start pacing. Left. Right. Like I’m the older brother here.

  "You think that's the answer? You screw up, so you just—quit?" I scoff. "What, you think dying is gonna magically fix this? Think it'll bring back those millions?"

  He swallows hard. Doesn’t answer.

  “No.” I shake my head. “It won’t. And you know what? You’re not the only one responsible.”

  He blinks at me.

  I take a breath, forcing my brain to put the pieces together. “We knew the Navorians were messing with the pnet. That’s not news. But now?” I gesture vaguely to, well, everything. “Now it’s gone too far. The nukes knocked the whole system off bance. The climate’s gone from ‘interesting science experiment’ to ‘we are all so, so dead.’”

  Ortol exhales, rubbing a shaking hand over his face.

  “But here’s the real problem,” I continue. “They’re still here. And if we don’t stop them, this pnet is going to be uninhabitable within weeks.”

  Things go quiet.

  Then Ortol nods. Just once.

  His voice steadies. “We need to act.”

  Damn right we do.

  He straightens in his chair, pressing a palm to his temple like he's trying to glue himself back together. “We should take precautions from the effects the nukes will have on global temperatures. Maybe build domes. And Romeo.”

  I frown. “Commander Romeo?”

  He nods. “He’s got a squad—mercenaries turned soldiers. New elites.” His eyes pin me on the spot. “I want them separate from the rest. Their job will be to hunt the Navorians down.”

  I stuff my hands in my pockets. “And?”

  Ortol exhales, then looks at me.

  “It’s time you make something for the army.”

  My stomach grumbles in disagreement.

  “They can’t fight creatures twice their size and ten times their strength with guns.” He leans forward. “They need more.”

  I gulp.

  Shit.

  Is it too te for the harakiri idea?