Teorin’s eyes opened slowly. His head throbbed, and his stomach churned with nausea. The concrete floor didn’t help, though someone had shoved a pillow under his head.

  He sat up. Every muscle in his body protested. He’d already been sore, but the stun made it ten times worse. The next time he saw Marcus, he was going to—

  Marcus. The drive. Everything came crashing back.

  Teorin frantically checked his pockets. Empty. He surged upright and tore through his packs, shoving aside a folded scrap of paper. His fingers dug through every compartment. No drive.

  Teorin slumped back against the couch, head spinning from the motion. Of course, Marcus took it. It wasn’t a surprise, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

  Losing the drive was bad. Losing it because his own brother betrayed him? That was worse.

  Teorin’s gaze swept the room, searching for any sign of what Marcus had done while he was unconscious. His gaze caught the pillow. He didn’t want to care that Marcus had left it, but he did.

  Stupid. Marcus had just knocked him out, and he was grateful for a pillow?

  His eyes caught on the folded paper he’d tossed aside. Right. That. He snatched it up and unfolded it. The handwritten scrawl was barely legible, as if the writer’s hand had been shaking.

  Sorry about the stun. The effects shouldn’t last too long. I left an energy bar by the telescope. It should wake you up enough to fly.

  Teorin glanced over. Sure enough, a wrapped bar rested on the telescope. Not much of an apology, but whatever.

  The note continued:

  I wouldn’t recommend sticking around. I’m not sure Sasha trusts me to get the job done. I wouldn’t put it past her to show up here, and you don’t want to be around if she does.

  Teorin cursed. He didn’t trust Marcus, but Sasha showing up wouldn’t surprise him at all. He needed to leave. Now.

  One more paragraph.

  I’m sorry about this, but it’s more important than you know. I can’t risk Novem getting its hands on it. I left everything else except Jace Rafinin’s journal. I figured that should go to Isi.

  Marcus had gone through his things. Of course, he had. Teorin wanted to be angry about the journal, but... he would’ve done the same in Marcus' place. He didn’t like Isi, but if his own father had left something behind, he’d want it, too.

  Teorin pocketed the note and turned back to his packs. At least Marcus hadn’t taken anything else. His memory stick with the scans was still in the burstproof container. Good. He needed to get out before anyone else showed up.

  There was a Novem waystation a few hours' flight away. It wouldn’t be easy. He’d have to stop, probably more than once.

  But he’d make it.

  He grabbed the energy bar, headed for the runway, and locked the door behind him. No reason to make things easy for Sasha.

  The wings unfurled.

  He ran.

  And jumped.

  ---

  Teorin woke to a banging on the door. It took him a second to remember where he was, a Novem cabin at one of the southern waystations. There hadn’t been anybody around when he arrived.

  Even the other cabins had looked deserted.

  The pounding continued, this time against the burstdoor. Teorin groaned and stumbled toward it. Who had a key to the cabin but wasn’t in the system? He squinted through the spy hole, only to see an eye staring back at him. He jerked away.

  Then the speaker activated. “I know you’re in there, Teorin. Let me in.”

  Drat. Delar.

  Teorin looked down. Undershorts and a wrinkled shirt. Not exactly great for receiving company, but his brother wasn’t exactly patient.

  He pressed a button and the door slid open. “What in the cascades are you doing here?”

  “What a warm welcome.” Delar grinned. “Is that how you normally greet people?”

  Teorin just stared.

  Delar sighed. “Are you going to let me in?”

  “Not until you tell me why you’re here.”

  Delar pursed his lips, like he was debating whether it’d be more fun to force his way inside, or if that was too much effort. Finally, he shrugged. “Jeron sent me. I won’t tell you why until you let me in.”

  “What? Why would he send you?”

  Another shrug. No explanation.

  Teorin sighed but stepped aside. Delar strolled in like he owned the place, dropping into a chair at the table. The door snicked shut behind him.

  Teorin followed, pulling out the other chair. “Explain, Delar. Now.”

  “Fine, fine. No need to be so impatient. I did fly all the way here for you. You could afford to be a little more appreciative.” He stretched out like this was some grand inconvenience.

  Teorin winced. The frustration from Marcus still gnawed at him. Maybe Delar didn’t deserve the brunt of it. He took a deep breath. This wasn’t Marcus. This was the brother who never shut up and stole his desserts, but also the one who eviscerated with humor anyone that dared lay a hand on him at school.

  Delar’s head tilted, watching him.

  Teorin exhaled. “Sorry. I’m just out of it.” He forced a weak smile.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Delar apparently deemed this an acceptable apology because he went on. “Jeron needed someone to take you to Kalin Bay.”

  Teorin paused. Kalin Bay? “No offense, but why you?”

  Delar rolled his eyes. “Jeron needed a pilot. He knows me. I owed him for some trouble he got me out of last year. He needed someone willing to fly out to the middle of nowhere, who was a Pulser to boot—because I had to meet you here—and someone you’d actually trust enough to go with.” He spread his arms. “Not exactly a long list of candidates.”

  It made sense, but still. Delar? Jeron trusted him?

  “You flew here?” Teorin asked. “Where’s your plane?”

  Delar grinned. “A few miles out. And yes, you’re flying back with me.”

  Teorin grimaced.

  Delar just laughed. He knew exactly how much Teorin hated planes—too claustrophobic, too restrictive. And flying with Delar? Even worse. Teorin still didn’t know how his troublemaker brother had ever become a pilot. He didn’t seem patient enough. Or responsible enough. But Teorin had heard that Delar was actually good, if a little crazy.

  If Jeron wanted him back badly enough to send Delar, something was going on.

  “Why the rush?”

  Delar chuckled. “You think he’d tell me that? This is Jeron we’re talking about.”

  True. Jeron could be secretive to a fault, even when it wasn’t classified.

  “Fine. What did he tell you?”

  “To get you back as fast as possible. Oh, and he gave me this.” Delar tossed something in the air.

  Teorin caught it: a small memory stick. “What is this?”

  “It’s from Jeron. He commanded that you—and specifically you, not me—watch it.”

  Teorin raised an eyebrow. “And you agreed?”

  Delar wasn’t exactly known for following rules. A secret file seemed like exactly the kind of thing he’d try to get into.

  Delar snorted. “He said if I watched it, I’d either have to join Novem or owe him for eternity. He was serious enough that I believed him.” He flashed a grin. “He didn’t, however, say I couldn’t ask you about it later. So the flight back seems like an excellent time to get some answers.”

  Teorin groaned.

  Delar just gave him a wicked grin. “Anyway, I’ll give you time to ruminate on that. Happy watching. I’ll just be outside admiring these lovely cabins.”

  With that, he stood, grinned, and walked out the door. Teorin exhaled, rolling the memory stick between his fingers. He’d hoped that after this mission, he’d finally get a break. Maybe even go home. It was good to see Delar again, even if he’d never admit that to him, but the timing, the secrecy… none of this sat right.

  “We actually are on a schedule!” Delar’s voice carried from outside. “So, you should probably watch that now.”

  Teorin sighed but stood, shooting Delar a glare as he passed the open burstdoor. He shut it. First, because he wouldn’t put it past Delar to listen in. Second, because with his luck, a burst would hit in the middle of watching and fry the computer.

  He walked through the bunk room to the computer station. It wasn’t connected to the net, so its use was limited, but for this, it would work.

  Fortunately, power wouldn’t be a problem. Outside, he’d spotted a burstline, a long metal wire collecting energy from bursts, likely feeding a battery that powered all the cabins.

  Teorin slid into the chair behind the desk and connected the memory stick. It took a second to start up, but once it did, the system recognized the stick—encrypted.

  He tried the encryption key Jeron usually used. Fortunately, it worked. Only one file appeared, a video file labeled “Video Log” followed by a long number. He clicked it.

  Teorin sat up straighter as an image appeared on the screen. The man was seated, staring at the camera. He rubbed his face, sighed, then looked up again.

  Dark brown hair. Neatly trimmed beard. Middle aged. Familiar. Where had Teorin seen him before?

  The man spoke. “I haven’t recorded anything for a while. It’s been busy, but there’s a lot to say. I just needed somewhere to say it, someone to say it to, without putting this on someone else.”

  Recognition hit. Teorin didn’t know this man personally, but he’d seen him in historical records.

  William Rafinin. Captain of the Atalanta.

  The Atalanta, the ship that had brought humans to this planet… And then had never left.

  Captain Rafinin continued, “It’s been a long year. Hard to believe. A whole year since arriving here. Who would have thought we’d still be here?” He exhaled sharply, standing and pacing across the room.

  Teorin barely breathed. A year after the First Burst. The one that had fried most of the Atalanta’s hard drives.

  Rafinin stopped pacing, turning to the camera. “That’s the thing, though. Why are we still here? There are too many coincidences. Every time we get close to solving this, it falls apart. It’s too neat.”

  Teorin frowned. What did that mean?

  Rafinin resumed pacing. “I might have believed the initial attack—the engine damage, the loss of most of our engineers, even some of the hard drive failures. But it wasn’t just that. Every avenue for fixing the Atalanta was taken out. The engineering plans. The manuals. Hell, even the language algorithm, though we don’t need that for repairs.”

  The captain stopped, leaning against the far wall, rubbing his temples. “And then there’s this whole mess with statherium.” His voice was quieter now.

  Teorin’s fingers clenched around the desk. Statherium. That one he recognized. The thing they were all looking for.

  Rafinin looked up, frustration clear in his eyes. “You always carry extra. We always carry extra. In multiple places. But somehow, this trip, every reserve was either damaged or missing. How is that even possible?”

  Teorin stared at the screen, numb.

  Rafinin pushed off the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets and resuming his pacing. “It’s practically inconceivable. How could a hit-and-run attack take out exactly what was needed to strand us here—and little else?”

  He stopped again, sighing, eyes fixed on something off-screen. “I might be able to deal with the ship alone, but factor in the bursts… it becomes unmanageable.”

  His expression darkened. “Even just living here… stepping outside feels like walking onto the set of some period drama. Who would have thought I’d see an actual street with a car on it?”

  Teorin blinked. He’d grown up with streets full of cars. It was strange to hear Rafinin talk about them like relics.

  “Better than walking everywhere, though,” Rafinin muttered. “Those first few weeks, I felt like I’d been thrown back into a history lesson. We’re lucky some of the Portilian folks had experience dealing with solar flares. It’s not the same, but at least they had a starting point for handling constant EMP blasts. At least… it seemed like luck.”

  He hesitated. “But again, what are the chances?”

  Silence.

  Teorin sat frozen, mind racing. When you put it all together like that… it was strange. Who would go to so much effort to strand the Atalanta here? And more importantly, why?

  Rafinin pushed off the wall, making his way back to the chair in front of the camera. He more or less collapsed into it, the frustration on his face fading into something bleaker. “I don’t know where to go from here… and it’s not just the ship.”

  He hesitated, as if debating whether to speak at all. “The people who are really on the ball, the ones who might actually get us out of here…” He exhaled sharply. “Too many of them die in accidents. Or tragedy strikes so close to home that they can’t focus on their work anymore.”

  Rafinin ran a hand down his face. “I know how this sounds. I don’t want to be the guy spouting conspiracy theories, but I don’t know what else to think. I’ve lost too many good people to tragedy.”

  Silence. Then he leaned in and shut off the camera.

  A message scrolled across the screen: End of Video Log.

  Teorin just sat there. The weight of what Rafinin had suggested settled over him like lead. If people had been disappearing because they got too close to the truth, because they were figuring out how to leave, then…

  Cascades. That meant what happened to his father, to Trevor… might not have been a fluke.

  His stomach twisted. Who would do something like that? And why? Aralin wasn’t a bad place. It wasn’t some prison. But then why would someone want them stuck here?

  There were too many questions.

  Had Captain Rafinin ever learned more? Could the things on the drive Marcus stole be connected? Or was it something else entirely, just another piece in an endless, unsolvable puzzle? Teorin wasn’t sure what to hope for. If Marcus had stolen nothing but more questions, Teorin would almost be satisfied. Let him drown in them for once.

  He pulled the memory stick from the computer and shut it down. Delar was going to pester him for answers the whole way back. Teorin needed to act like that video hadn’t just cracked his world open. He took a deep breath and started gathering his things. Then he suited up. Delar wanted to leave soon, and Teorin had no reason to stay.

  He was still exhausted. At least the cabin had a Pressure Recharge Station. He wasn’t pressure-hungry again—small mercies.

  But the weight of everything pressed down on him. Maybe he could sleep on the plane.

  Hopefully.

  He had too much to think about. And way too much time to think, with no real answers in sight. Sleeping would be better.

  He grabbed his gear and stepped outside to meet Delar.