The rebel dropships are closing in.

  Low.

  Aggressive.

  No attempt to hide.

  Their turbines tear at the air as if someone promised them a bonus for every ton of sand they throw up. The crash site vanishes, turns into a choking, swirling cauldron. Visibility drops to almost nothing. The world contracts to engine thunder and the gritty crunch between my teeth.

  I stand perfectly still.

  Eyes closed.

  Not in surrender.

  In calculation.

  Dust settles on the jumpsuit, on skin, on eyelashes. I count seconds. My heartbeat is steady—too steady for someone who’s supposedly running for their life. I correct it: a little faster, a little uneven. Breathing the way fear breathes. Real fear. Untrained fear.

  “Everyone freeze! Don’t move!”

  The command is hard, stripped bare. Human. No algorithms.

  I open my eyes.

  Weapons.

  A lot of weapons.

  They surround us in a half-circle. Faces hard, tired, alert. Not cruelty—habit. Survival muscle memory. Barrels pointed like they’ve been waiting for an excuse.

  It takes only seconds for my squad to be forced to their knees.

  One of ours drops too sharply—he’s immediately shoved with a rifle butt. He falls. The girl next to him lets out a quiet cry. Clean. Convincing. Well done.

  “Check them.”

  The commander’s voice. Calm. Certain. The voice of someone who doesn’t raise it because he doesn’t need to.

  And that’s when the cold hits.

  I know exactly what they’re looking for.

  A noema scan.

  If they find a trace of the Dark Mind—

  There will be no interrogation.

  No questions.

  No time.

  There will be a shot.

  Quick. Practical. With a sense of duty fulfilled.

  So this is it, thinks a part of me.

  An extra part.

  A human one.

  I ignore it.

  An armed man approaches me. Slowly. The scanner in his hand looks almost ridiculous—too small to decide fates. He passes it over my chest. My throat. My temple.

  Seconds stretch like bad glue.

  Inside me, the noemae do what they exist for: collapse inward, go deaf, pretend to be emptiness. Perfectly. Cleaner than I dared hope.

  That’s it, I think. Now.

  “Clean.”

  I blink.

  “They’re clean,” he repeats louder. “No traces of noetic activity.”

  A whisper ripples through the line. Disappointment. Someone clearly wanted to shoot.

  Relief washes over me—brief and dangerous. The kind that makes you want to laugh. So I don’t.

  So the noemae can hide even from those who are sure they see everything.

  Useful skill.

  I’ll remember that.

  They haul us up. Roughly. March us under guard to the rebel dropships. Strap us into seats, cinch the belts tight—as if we might vanish through the floor. Guards sit opposite us. Weapons stay raised.

  And a simple thought slips in:

  If I clench my fist right now—

  my weapon will break camouflage

  and put them all down in about three seconds.

  A pleasant thought.

  Rational.

  Premature.

  Not yet, I tell myself. First trust. Then information. Then control.

  I look at my guard. Not deliberately. I just forget to look away.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “What are you staring at?” He jumps up sharply. “Want me to calm you down?”

  The barrel presses against my forehead. Warm. Real.

  The dropship goes quiet.

  The kind of quiet people usually pay for in blood.

  I slowly avert my gaze. No hurry. Let him see: I understand the rules.

  And then she intervenes.

  “We’re refugees,” says a woman from my squad. Her voice trembles exactly as much as it should. “We’re looking for help. Please.”

  She looks at the commander. Boldly. A fraction more than allowed. He doesn’t comment.

  “Don’t kill us,” adds a boy. A teenager. His hands are genuinely shaking. Excellent. Too good to be accidental.

  The commander grimaces.

  “Stand down.”

  The guard reluctantly sits back. The anger stays in him, chambered like a round.

  I exhale.

  Good, I think.

  Good that my squad has women and teenagers.

  Good that you know how to look alive.

  And especially good

  that these rebels don’t yet know

  what you’ll do to them

  if I decide

  the mask is no longer necessary.

  The dropship lifts off.

  And the game—

  is only just beginning.

  **

  We don’t know where we’re going.

  And that’s the worst part.

  The dropship no longer shakes. It glides—smooth, confident, almost considerate, like the hand of a doctor who has already made the decision and therefore doesn’t rush. After the crash, that kind of steadiness gets under your skin worse than any turbulence. When the machine is too sure of itself, it means you aren’t.

  I feel the landing before I hear it: the pressure shifts slightly, the vibration drops out for a heartbeat—as if the world inhales… and decides not to exhale just yet.

  The dropship comes to a stop.

  The ramp lowers with a dull metallic sound. Not threatening. Functional. The kind of sound a door makes when everything on the other side has already been prepared.

  “Out. One at a time. No sudden moves.”

  They unstrap us. Carefully. With effort—as if testing how much pain it takes to remind a person of their place. One of the rebels yanks the teenager too hard. He stumbles, almost kissing the floor.

  “Careful,” the woman says. The same one. Her voice trembles—right within acceptable limits.

  The guard turns toward her, looking for a reason.

  “You telling me how to do my job?”

  I take a step forward. Almost invisible. Almost automatic.

  A bad habit—reacting faster than thinking.

  A rifle snaps toward me instantly.

  “Freeze,” he snarls. “You’re all the same. One more move and I’ll decide you’re not so clean after all.”

  Something inside me smirks.

  On the outside, I stop. Slowly. Obediently. Even a little awkward, like I caught myself just in time.

  The commander shoots him a look.

  “That’s enough. We’re working.”

  The tension doesn’t go away. It just gets deferred. Like a fine. With interest.

  We step outside.

  And for one short, dangerous second, I forget that I’m supposed to be afraid.

  A hangar.

  Huge. The dome rises upward, disappearing into layers of light, metal, and cables. The lighting is soft, even—and there’s so much of it that it hurts the eyes. Dozens of dropships. Different eras, shapes, and levels of desperation. Some held together by scrap and stubbornness. Others maintained, upgraded, almost new.

  This isn’t a base.

  It’s a system.

  “An air bay…” someone whispers.

  “Deep inside a mountain, most likely,” I answer quietly.

  Too calmly.

  I catch the guard’s eye and correct myself: lower my head, hunch my shoulders, add a faint tremor. Just right. Refugee. Nobody.

  They march us on.

  Tunnels. Narrow. Long. Branching passages, sensors, guards every few dozen meters. Everything practical. Everything thought through. Nothing extra.

  Yes, I note. We’re very deep. And not by accident.

  They load us into metal cars. No windows. The doors seal with a hiss—like a mouth not used to being resisted.

  “Sit quietly. No heroics.”

  The train launches forward. Hard.

  We’re slammed into our seats. The magnetic cushion hums low, almost pleasant. The tunnel flashes by in bands of light, like a pulse on a monitor.

  I start counting. Automatically.

  Time.

  Acceleration.

  Speed.

  …three minutes… four…

  Stop.

  Fifteen miles, I log.

  Now I understand why Noxaris never stormed this place. Too many layers. And too many people who aren’t holding weapons.

  I feel them before I see them.

  They take us out.

  An underground city.

  Not a camp.

  Not a base.

  A city.

  Streets. Walkways. Living blocks. Light. Motion. People. They look at us differently—hatred, fear, curiosity. Someone spits. Someone turns away. Someone stares too intently.

  Too many of them, I think. You can’t afford mistakes here.

  They lead us into a large, empty room.

  “Separate them,” an officer orders.

  “What?!” the woman steps forward. “We stay together!”

  “Not anymore,” the soldier replies.

  The teenager reaches for me.

  “Commander… sir—”

  I catch his eye and give the slightest shake of my head.

  Patience.

  They take them away.

  Me—separately.

  The door closes.

  A room. A table. Two chairs. The light is aimed to blind, to erase any sense of space. An old trick. A working one.

  They sit me down, chain my wrist to the table. Cold metal bites into my skin. Deliberately.

  They think this is a restraint, I note. That’s almost funny.

  The door opens.

  An officer enters. You can tell immediately—by his walk, his gaze, the calm of someone used to others breaking first. He doesn’t hurry. Studies me like a tool, not yet sure whether to repair it or discard it.

  He sits across from me.

  Folds his hands.

  “Well,” he says. “Let’s get acquainted.”

  I meet his eyes. Calm. No challenge.

  He’s certain this is an interrogation.

  I’m certain it’s the opening move.

  We’ll see

  which of us

  makes the first mistake.