“The Nest took everything. What the hell do we do?” Goodman shouted.

  He stood in the middle of the wreckage, coated in dust, his face gone gray. His ears still rang from the thunder strike. All around him lay rubble, chunks of armor plating, charred beams, and boots with no owners.

  Tomos spat to the side, like he could spit the stink of burned metal out of his lungs.

  “First we breathe, Captain. Then we think.”

  There was no time to think.

  From the far end of the yard, the people still loyal to Stanford Minton got to their feet. Guards who had not joined the revolt. They moved without speeches or panic. They sealed the passages, put down the worst of the violent ones, and herded the rest under gun barrels. A few minutes was all it took to make it clear the mutiny had collapsed. Not because it had been defeated. Because it had been burned out along with the building itself.

  Stanford Minton stood under what was left of a wall and stared at the scene like it belonged to him alone. His private disaster. He exhaled, long and rough.

  “That’s it,” he said, voice dull. “Enough. All of it.”

  He turned to the nearest living guards.

  “Chain the giant. Put him in the vault. Now.”

  The guards exchanged looks.

  “But he’s…” one started.

  “I said chain him,” Minton repeated. “He’s not a hero to me. He’s a problem.”

  Coop Bevin lay nearby. Luck had kept him breathing, but his armor was nearly shredded. A hole gaped in the chest, wiring exposed like torn veins. He was breathing. That meant he would live. And if he lived, there would be someone to answer for what happened.

  Lothar and Wilt lay close together, half buried beneath the collapsed dome Wilt had held until the end. They were dragged out with difficulty. Lothar’s throat was black, as if burned from the inside. Wilt looked dead. Her pulse was thin, barely there.

  Terry looked at them and felt something clamp tight in his chest.

  “Get them to medical,” he said. “Immediately.”

  “Captain,” Tomos muttered. “Medical here is two tables and one nurse who decides who gets to live.”

  “Then she’d better decide correctly,” Terry said.

  The colony warden walked closer. He looked older than he had a month ago, as if the day had burned away whatever was extra and left only the raw framework.

  “Captain Goodman. Mr. Goff,” Stanford began.

  Tomos gave a dry grunt.

  “Here it comes. Thanks for your service.”

  The colony warden did not take the bait. He only waved a tired hand.

  “It’s over. The revolt is contained. The survivors are back in their cells. I’ve already sealed the armory. Voss, Dorn, Kalt, everyone involved, anyone still breathing will talk. Anyone who refuses won’t refuse ever again.”

  Terry said nothing. He did not feel victory. He had seen too many bodies to feel anything clean.

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  The colony warden looked at the stretchers where Wilt and Lothar lay.

  “I’ll do everything I can to save them,” he said quietly. “You pulled my colony out of my throat. I won’t forget it.”

  Tomos’s face twisted.

  “Your colony out of your throat, sure. People are just the price tag.”

  Minton’s cheek jumped, but he didn’t argue. He turned away and went back to giving orders.

  Wilt Norcutt woke a month later.

  The room smelled of antiseptic and metal. The window was small, barred, a colony habit that even guests did not escape. Wilt opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling for a long time.

  Terry sat beside the bed, asleep in a chair, head resting against the wall.

  Wilt tried to speak and started coughing instead. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

  Terry woke instantly, as if he had been waiting for the sound.

  “You’re alive,” he said. No smile. Relief anyway, rough around the edges.

  “Where…” she rasped.

  “Here. The colony. The mutiny’s done. Stanford has the place in his fist.”

  Wilt tried to sit up and her body refused. She hated that refusal like an enemy.

  “Lothar?” she asked.

  Terry hesitated for a beat.

  “Not awake yet. But he’s breathing. They’re watching him. Doctor says the throat’s burned, but not all the way through. If we’re lucky, he’ll talk again. If we’re not… you know.”

  Wilt closed her eyes.

  “We’ll be lucky,” she said, and it came out like an order.

  A week later, Lothar came back.

  He looked starved, lips cracked, eyes clouded but alive. When he tried to speak, all he managed was a raw rasp.

  The female inquisitor stood by his cot. No pity, no cruelty. Just the look of someone responsible for what he carried.

  “You can hear me?” she asked.

  Lothar nodded. He tried to smile and failed.

  “Don’t push it,” Wilt said. “You’re still useful.”

  Lothar blinked and forced out the words, barely audible.

  “He’s… inside?”

  Wilt understood who he meant.

  “Yes,” the female inquisitor said. “But the chains rebuilt themselves. For now. We’ll talk about it later.”

  Lothar shut his eyes. It did not look like relief. It looked like another weight being set on his chest.

  When they could walk again, the colony warden summoned them.

  The office had been rebuilt. New walls, same air. Control, money, fear. A water carafe sat on the desk beside a stack of documents.

  Stanford sat across from them with a tablet in front of him.

  “I wired the money to your account,” he said without preamble. “As agreed.”

  Terry lifted an eyebrow.

  “We’re not mercenaries.”

  Stanford nodded.

  “I know. But you didn’t fly here for free. And you saved more than my life. You saved my power.”

  Tomos leaned against the door and smiled without warmth.

  “Power always has a budget.”

  Stanford let it slide.

  “And information,” he continued. “I paid a very large sum to learn that your Adam Graff is tied to an organization. They call it Sperare.”

  Norcutt sharpened instantly, like a blade pulled from its sheath.

  “What do they do?” she asked.

  “Everything,” the colony warden said. “But the real god they worship is capital. Money. They came to me a year ago and demanded fifteen percent of the mine revenue. No reason. Like I owed them.”

  “What did they offer in return?” Norcutt asked.

  Stanford gave a small, ugly smile.

  “My life. They wouldn’t kill me. They would graciously allow me to keep breathing.”

  Tomos made a low sound.

  “So they wanted to put you under their roof.”

  “Yes,” Stanford said, not bothering to dress it up. “Gangsters. I told them to crawl back into the Nest. They didn’t like that.”

  Terry’s posture tightened.

  “And Graff came here because of it.”

  Minton nodded.

  “He flew in. Talked to me for a long time. I told him I wasn’t afraid of him. He tried to get into my head, but the detonator in my heart stopped him.”

  Wilt’s eyes narrowed.

  “He sensed it.”

  “He did,” Minton said. “He understood that if he pushed deeper, I would die, and everything would go up with me. He smiled and left me alone. Like we’d just had a polite conversation.”

  Tomos swore under his breath.

  “Slippery bastard.”

  Stanford went on, as if admitting it tasted bitter.

  “I spent fifty million crowns to plant a spy near him. The contact is on Chukur now.”

  Wilt leaned forward.

  “The contact is alive. Name.”

  Minton shook his head.

  “I won’t give you the name. Not because I’m greedy. Because I’m afraid. If you burn him by accident, I lose the only thread I have. I can give you a channel. One use. After that, you’re on your own.”

  Terry looked at Wilt. In her face he saw what she tried to keep hidden: exhaustion, anger, and the hard bright pull of the hunt.

  Goff spoke first.

  “Well, my lady. Looks like we’re going to Chukur.”

  Norcutt nodded.

  “We are,” she said. “And this time, no colonies, no diplomacy, and no one else’s games.”

  Lothar stayed silent. He still couldn’t speak properly, but his eyes said enough. He heard the word that mattered.

  Sperare.

  And somewhere deep inside him, the chains shifted, just slightly, as if something down there had smiled too.