Silas ducked on instinct, the blade skidding past his skull. Vera drew her flarepistol. Silas heard the action rather than saw it; his back was to her. He had no time to stop and consider what she was doing. The blade was coming for him again.

  Silas tried to dodge. Even if he was in top condition, he never would have made it. Locke was fast, his blade faster still. His movements were a blur, his stiletto a flash of steel aimed at Silas's heart. Vera's kick hit Silas in the back of the knees. He fell, landing hard on all fours. Silas crawled away from the fight. If Vera hadn't dropped him, he'd have been skewered through the chest.

  But Locke wasn't done. He grabbed a fistful of Silas's hair and yanked, forcing him up. Silas glared at the floor. If he could still attack with his mind, this would already be over. Instead, he had a sharp point pressed against his skin. Again. He was finding himself in this situation a lot lately.

  "Remove your hands from him," Vera advised, flarepistol level, "or I'll burn them from your body."

  Locke's grin was barely perceptible—a slight twitch at the corners of his mouth. Silas only saw it because he was so close to the man he could smell what he had for breakfast. The smile confused Silas. It wasn't an expression worn by someone serious about what they were doing. Silas stared at it. His eyes widened in realization.

  Amusement. Locke is enjoying himself.

  Ravelin and Oscar approached from behind. Silas didn't notice them until Locke swiveled—spinning Silas with him. The man let go of Silas then, but just long enough to deal with his opponents. Swiftly, Locke disabled them. Silas didn't see how. One breath they were armed. The next, they were on the floor, weapons out of reach. Silas staggered away from Locke, determined to escape him this time. Vera was too. She reached for him. Locke got there first.

  But he had to fight for it. Vera fired off two shots, one for each of his feet. Locke hopped back just in time. Scorch marks marred the floor where his feet were moments before. Lazy trails of smoke curled toward the cavern ceiling. Silas watched them, transfixed. Locke's rapid movement extinguished the smoldering floor, and Silas was once again rendered a hostage.

  Vera growled her frustration and threw her flarepistol to the ground. Then, she lunged. Silas was released. Vera braked, the soles of her boots squealing against the tile. Too late. She and Silas collided. Silas lost his balance and was reacquainted with the floor. Vera remained standing.

  Ravelin and Oscar were back on their feet. Locke circled them like he had circled Silas before—studious, patient. Those listless eyes of his analyzed his adversaries, knowing how they would move before they did. Silas had seen that look before. Ms. Adlewood used to regard him like that when he was first learning sign language. Somehow, she understood what confused Silas even when he didn't. And she always knew how to help.

  He's like a teacher, an instructor. Silas scrambled to his feet again, standing beside Quirin who was watching in horror. Did he teach Covenant members how to fight?

  That appeared to be what he was doing now. The next act played out like a dance. Someone would move to attack Locke, and he would avoid it effortlessly. Then, he'd mimic their strike, schooling them with their own fighting style. Silas was mesmerized by the beauty of the performance. He snapped his mouth shut lest he drool on himself.

  Vera managed to get her flarepistol back. It was a sneaky maneuver—one that Silas was convinced would grant her the finishing blow. But before she could pull the trigger, Locke disengaged from the battle. He slipped his stiletto back into the small sheath on his belt. The little compartment was so innocuous Silas thought it was a buckle at first. Then Locke sat—casual, unbothered—and crossed his legs.

  "You all pass," he said.

  Vera's face seemed to convulse. She blinked hard and fast, her lips moving but no sound coming out. "What?" she blurted when she regained control over her composure.

  Ravelin and Oscar had dropped their weapons, but Vera still held hers high. Silas needed to sit down. He stumbled to the bench, not caring that Locke was there, and slouched beside Pa. His grandfather was too stunned to react.

  Locke clapped. Slow, deliberate. Almost mocking. Who was he applauding for? Himself? Vera's face turned so red Silas thought steam was going to burst out of her ears.

  "Your performance was satisfactory," Locke said. "You did well—all of you. Two former Arbiters and one former Warden, yes?" He nodded once at each as he spoke. "Your defense was… inelegant but effective. Good work."

  Vera fluttered her lashes. "I hope you can talk fast, mister. Because if you don't start explaining in the time it takes me to pull the trigger, I'm going to melt your face off."

  Silas shuddered, Vera's words forcing him to recall Ilyra Curne's similarly described demise.

  Locke guffawed, his head falling back. "You must be Vera Stroud," he said, still laughing. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Perrin Locke—High Justicar of the Covenant of Fallen Stars."

  High Justicar. Silas rolled the title around in his mind. He couldn't decipher what it meant. Quirin's title was Prime Machinist. Silas knew what a machinist was, but justicar was not in his vernacular. The Covenant leans toward grandeur. Silas shrugged to himself. The name did sound impressive, however gratuitous it was.

  "That little skirmish," Locke continued, "was a test."

  Vera finally holstered her flarepistol, crossing her arms. "A test? For whom? The boy?"

  Locke chuckled. "No. Of those who choose to stand beside him. You three are impressive… for your experience level. With some polishing, you could become formidable combatants."

  Vera's fury was barely restrained. Tight fists and clenched teeth were all that stood between her and a vulgar outburst. Ravelin did a better job hiding her rage, but Silas still noticed. Since she no longer wore a mask, he could see the way she bit the inside of her cheek to conceal her emotions. Oscar just appeared confused. And like he wished to be anywhere but where he currently stood.

  Quirin hadn't moved this entire time. Now that the fight was over, he no longer looked like he was about to suffer a panic attack. Beneath the machinist's fear was conviction. It carried him forward until he stood in front of Locke, peering down at him.

  "Why are you really here?" Quirin asked. "Is it simply to spite me?"

  That little flicker of amusement played at Locke's lips again. "I've come to fix the mess you made, Halven."

  Quirin winced like he'd been slapped.

  Locke leaned forward, his legs still crossed. "You're a machinist, not a leader. You never had the capabilities to command the Covenant. It's clear—from your recent activities—why we never put you in such a position. You'd do well to return to your workshop and toil away at the hunks of metal you love so much."

  Beside Silas, Kessara shifted in her seat. Her glare was sharper than Locke's stiletto.

  "Where were you?" Quirin stepped closer. "Where were you when the laboratory fell? When the Empire destroyed everything we had worked so hard to achieve? Where were you when the Covenant scattered, our members fleeing in fear and disorder? Where were you when he” —Quirin thrust a finger at Silas— "was captured by the enemy to be made into a weapon against us? You hid. That's what you did. You cowered like the rest of them. Only I was brave enough to try to bring us back together. You're bold, Perrin, for talking down to me while you hide beneath the cover of others' sacrifices. You have no right to criticize me."

  Perrin hummed softly. "Inaction is no worse than what you've done, Halven. I'd rather do nothing at all than make mistakes whose consequences can never be reversed. You have compromised the Covenant's original purpose, you and all of your lackeys." Lazy eyes slowly scanned each person in the dining hall, lingering on Pa and Silas. "I will gather the rest of our scattered membership. I will right your wrongs. Now, if you'll excuse me." Locke stood and exited the dining hall, his bootsteps quieter than a whisper.

  Silas poured himself a steaming mug of coffee and guzzled it down. With Locke gone, the dining hall was as quiet and tense as the Underhalo had been before finding Pa and the others. Silas's greedy slurps were the only sound. Vera waited for Silas to finish drowning himself in coffee before speaking.

  "That was an entertaining diversion," she said through clenched teeth. "Now it's time to return to the problem at hand. Physick, you must have a look at Silas."

  Dr. Veyl frowned. Silas sat up tall, trying to sell a chipper countenance. Vera wasn't buying it.

  "Why?" Dr. Veyl finally asked after a lot of silent scrutiny. "Was he injured on the mission? He appears physically sound."

  "No, but he—"

  Silas interrupted Vera by standing and making his way to the door. He wished to return to his dormitory and spend some time alone, away from everyone and their fussing. But in the doorway, his legs gave way. Silas acted like his bootlaces were to blame for his stumble, stopping to fiddle with them before climbing to his feet once more. Again he fell. This time he stayed down.

  "You see?" Vera huffed, rushing over to help Silas back to the bench. He refused to make eye contact with anyone. "Whatever this is keeps getting worse, but he's adamant about pretending he's fine."

  "My lad." Pa pressed a palm to the table to get his grandson's attention. The gesture was ignored. "Whatever is the matter?"

  Silas knew this was the end of the road. He couldn't hide anymore. And Vera was right; it was getting worse. After his failure at the Arboretum, Silas proved to himself that he couldn't fix his aether on his own. Any ordinary Unspoken wouldn't do, either. He needed Echo. If only she wasn't so untrustworthy.

  What if she lied about that too? Silas fought back tears, trying to blink them away. They fell despite his efforts. What if she lied about being able to help me to manipulate me more. What if nobody can help?

  Silas didn't care about his health or life; he cared about the fate of the world. Quirin was right about what he said before they entered the Arboretum—that the salubrity of humanity reflected Silas's. He needed to get better. To do that, he needed to be honest.

  He had to stop crying first. The tears wouldn't stop. Now Silas was sobbing. Embarrassment made the tears fall faster. The longer he lied, the harder it was to finally reveal the truth. He worried the others would be angrier than he was at himself.

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  "Good job, Vera," Oscar sneered. "You've really done it now."

  "Oscar?" Vera said his name like a threat.

  "...Yes?"

  "Shut up."

  "Right. Sorry."

  Silas giggled at their remarks, the banter drying his eyes. Everyone had seated themselves at the bench, all watching Silas intently. He shied away from the attention and turned to Pa to sign, focusing solely on him. His hands trembled from uncertainty and caffeine. Starting was the hardest part. Once he began, the story flowed, weaved by his fingers.

  Silas began with the Archarbiter's lies at the Garrison Mordant, recounting the overwhelming grief and anger he felt when Sorne convinced him Pa and Vera were executed. "I needed to kill him," he signed forcefully. "I wanted to see his skull rupture. I didn't care what happened to me. If my death was needed to bring Sorne down, so be it. That was a sacrifice I was willing to make."

  Silas stopped. He had to take several steps back. If this next part was to be understood by the others, he had to explain what aether was. "In his notes left at Coldspire Depot, Pa used the word 'resonance' to describe the power my brain emits. The Unspoken call it aether. They say it's like lifeforce—an incorporeal substance that fills the minds of those with Voices. The only human they know of with aether is me, but they suspect other humans have it too, even if they can't sense it."

  Silas sighed. He was a bad storyteller. He should have started with Echo first, then explained about aether next. Silas grunted at his hands in frustration. Pa reassured him with a gentle pat on the arm. Silas's eyes avoided Pa's scarred neck as he continued.

  "At the Foundry School attack where everything began, I met an Unspoken who I decided to call Echo. Her Voice was the first that I was able to understand clearly. She explained that she approached me because my Voice sounded strange to the Unspoken, prompting them to investigate. She said I sounded 'unwhole,' or 'broken.' She offered to fix my Voice. At the time, I refused. Because of her, my classmates and teachers died. I thought Pa had died. I wanted nothing to do with her.

  "I met her again in the Western Quadrant. Other Unspoken called her their Queen. Echo tricked me. We had a deal. If I helped Echo and her Soldiers win over the humans, she would offer me something in return. I wanted her help escaping the Garrison Mordant. Technically, we never agreed on a trade. But I assumed she would help me if I helped her.

  "Instead, she went silent. I released her weapon—that dangerous virus. Then, she abandoned me. I haven't heard from her since."

  Reactions were mixed along the bench. Mention of the Unspoken, notably the Queen, intrigued Vera. Her lips parted while she listened, staring intently at Silas's hands as Pa translated for everyone. Ravelin was unfazed, her usual apathetic expression on full display. Some of this she already knew from her tenure at the Garrison Mordant. Kessara was similarly indifferent. Oscar's fear and disgust were evident when he pushed away his unfinished mug of coffee and screwed up his face. Pa, Dr. Veyl, and Quirin were transfixed, hanging on to Silas's every signed word.

  "There's a point to all this," Silas insisted. "I learned a lot about the Unspoken in the Western Quadrant, and about myself. The Unspoken taught me about aether, and finally explained why I sound strange to them." Silas repeated their description of his constantly spewing power. Then, the pipes he sensed in his mind when he attacked Sorne.

  "The constant outflow wasn't an issue until I broke those pipes. Now, there's nothing to contain the aether, and it can't accumulate. I can't speak to the Unspoken like this. I'm useless. I'm sorry."

  "Why would you keep all of this to yourself, my lad?" Pa said, his voice cracking. When Silas stopped signing, Pa took one of his hands in his. "Were you afraid we'd be mad at you?"

  Silas shook his head. "I was—still am—ashamed." Silas freed his hand from Pa's to answer. "It's my fault this happened. I didn't want to burden anyone with my own mistake."

  Pa didn't translate this one. By Vera's expression, she caught most of what Silas said. Everyone else sat in silent confusion, not willing to ask for clarification.

  "You said you can't speak to the Unspoken like you are now," Quirin said. "Why is that? What happens when you try?"

  "It's very difficult," Silas admitted. "And… it hurts. It makes the fatigue a lot worse. Plus, I don't think the Unspoken can understand me. When I tried at the Arboretum, they didn't indicate they heard what I said, only how I sounded." Silas refrained from repeating the phrase the Unspoken had used to describe his Voice. He similarly withheld the knowledge that total aether depletion leads to death. Silas feared Pa's heart would give out if he divulged these details.

  Silas jolted in his seat. He'd never had the chance to tell Quirin what he learned at the Arboretum—about the rats and the air ducts. He started to say this, but Vera interrupted him. She probably thought Silas was trying to change the topic again. Quirin was disappointed but didn't argue.

  "This is a splendid mess," Vera said, her lips drawn into a fine line. "But there's a solution." She turned to Quirin. "It looks like our next mission will be to the Western Quadrant to find this 'Echo' creature."

  Quirin hesitated before responding. Silas narrowed his eyes on the machinist. He knew what he was thinking. He aims to separate me from Vera. Silas dared the machinist to say his thoughts out loud. He did not.

  Instead, Quirin said, "The journey won't be easy. There are few SCU tracks in the Western Quadrant. I don't know for certain, but I think this is because there are so many Unspoken there, along with all of their subterranean living quarters. Child, where exactly did you last hear from your little Unspoken friend?"

  She's not my friend! Silas grumbled internally. He considered Quirin's words. Ah! That must be why Vera drove me from the Garrison Mordant to the Underhalo in a boiler instead of taking the SCU.

  "I can't point out the location on a map," Silas signed, "but it's wherever Ilyra Curne's troops were always stationed." He paused, hands hovering mid-air. "The last I heard from Echo was immediately after I released the virus. That area is still contaminated, isn't it?"

  Quirin grumbled something indecipherable. It sounded to Silas like a string of curses.

  "I care naught for a little stale air," Vera said. "Even if I must go alone, I'll get him there."

  Silas stared at her. Vera winked and tapped her chin, gesturing for Silas to close his gaping mouth. He did before shyly looking away. Why she was willing to go so far for him Silas could not comprehend.

  Quirin grimaced like he'd bitten into something foul. Silas resisted the urge to smirk. Just try telling her to sit this one out, he taunted internally.

  "Machinist Quirin, is there an EEG machine here?" Dr. Veyl asked. "In storage perhaps?"

  Silas shot the physick a confused look.

  "Yes. There should be. Why?"

  Dr. Veyl jerked his chin at Silas.

  Quirin gave a terse nod. "It's in the back. With the surgical supplies, I believe."

  "What's an EEG machine?" Silas signed.

  "That's the device with the electrode arrays," Kessara explained, pointing at Silas's forehead. She evidently didn't need Pa to translate to know his question. "EEG stands for electroencephalogram. It measures the brain's electrical activity."

  Silas raised his eyebrows. The brain produced electricity? This was his first time hearing of it. Maybe aether is also a form of electricity.

  "Alright lad." Dr. Veyl stood with a crackle of dissent from his knees. "Come with me to the medical bay."

  Silas carefully came to his feet. His legs seemed more stable now. Perhaps no longer being encumbered by the weight of his secret had granted him strength. Or maybe it was the coffee. Dr. Veyl still held out his arms like he expected Silas to fall. The boy confidently strode past, a slight spring in his step.

  Vera moved to follow, but was stopped by Quirin's whisper. Silas paused in the doorway to wait for Dr. Veyl to catch up, watching the interaction with suspicion. The longer Quirin spoke into her ear, the farther Vera's frown descended. Silas wanted to wait for her—to know what Quirin said—but Dr. Veyl was now in the corridor, waiting for him.

  In the medical bay Dr. Veyl instructed Silas to sit on a cot while he rummaged around in a back closet. Silas drummed his fingers against his thighs and tapped his feet, trying to ward off nervous energy. Every second in the medical bay felt like being stuck in a recurring nightmare. The sterile funk that burned his nose, bright lights, and sharp implements made him want to flee. Or hide. And Dr. Veyl was taking his sweet time in the back, mumbling to himself all the while. Silas was about to go check on the physick when Dr. Veyl burst into the room carting a wheeled, boxy contraption behind him.

  Silas sank back onto the cot, trying to control his breathing. You're not in the Garrison Mordant, he reminded himself. He repeated it again and again, over and over as Dr. Veyl applied the sticky pads and flipped the machine's switch. Up and down went the lines, zigzagging from left to right across the shiny mirror.

  You're not in the Garrison Mordant. You're not in the Garrison Mordant. You'renotinthe—

  "This cannot be."

  Dr. Veyl's proclamation of denial halted Silas's spiraling thoughts. The physick was stooped over the machine, fiddling with its dials and knobs. Then he peeled the sticky pads off Silas's head and reapplied new ones. Whatever had upset the physick the first time was not resolved by these interventions.

  "Wait here, lad," Dr. Veyl murmured distractedly. "Don't touch anything. Keep still. I'm going to bring Kessara in to fix this."

  Silas did as he was told, hardly moving, staring at the open door. His eyes drifted to the machine. The line near the bottom that had enamored the white coats at the Garrison Mordant drew his attention. This line was normally sporadic, flying high and plummeting low at rapid, irregular intervals. Now it was practically flat—still and lifeless. Silas squinted, studying the other lines. All of them were unusually stagnant.

  Dr. Veyl and Kessara stormed into the room. Kessara repeated the exact tinkering Dr. Veyl did. The result was the same. Together, they frowned at the machine, then at Silas. Without saying a word to each other, they left. Silas blinked after them. Was he supposed to keep sitting still with his head covered in sticky pads?

  Now there were voices in the corridor. Silas heard Dr. Veyl, then Kessara. They were talking so quietly he couldn't discern what they were saying. Then, Vera's voice boomed over the rest.

  "What?" she yelled. A chorus of shushes followed.

  "He doesn't have much time left, is what you're saying?" Quirin was also shushed, more aggressively than Vera.

  Silas drew his knees to his chest, rocking gently for comfort.

  Am I going to die?

  Bootsteps marked the departure of several individuals. Dr. Veyl re-entered the medical bay to remove the sticky pads from Silas, this time for good. He avoided eye contact, but kept rambling on about random nonsense. "Dinner tonight is going to be roast fowl," he said at one point, followed by, "It's a bit warmer in the Western Quadrant than here, right? That'll be nice."

  When Silas was finally freed, he stood to go, freezing at a new commotion in the corridor. Locke's voice in particular made his blood run cold.

  "Listen to me," Quirin said hurriedly. "It's only logical. Mr. Locke is a better combatant than you, Ms. Stroud. The Western Quadrant is dangerous. The best chance the boy has is in capable hands."

  "I'm not taking that abomination to the Western Quadrant," Locke replied calmly. "I couldn't care less about your little pet freak or his… preternatural problems. I have business to attend to here, as I've already said."

  "That's why I suggested Ms. Stroud stay here and—"

  Both Vera and Locke interrupted Quirin with strong words of opposition. Then, Locke said, "Listen to me now, and listen closely, machinist. I do not care. I do not care if that thing dies. I do not care about the 'living bridge' you and your fellows created. I will bring the Covenant's original purpose back to life, cleansing the corruption you have spread. I will speak no more about this."

  He left. Vera and Quirin followed soon after. Dr. Veyl tried cheering Silas up, but Silas ignored him and departed the medical bay quickly. Silas walked the corridors alone, allowing himself to get lost in their twists and turns as his mind churned. He was glad that Quirin's attempt to displace Vera failed, but Locke's new presence in the Covenant troubled him. Even if the trip to the Western Quadrant was successful, Silas worried he'd return to an Underhalo adverse to his existence. Before, Quirin made it sound like the Covenant of Fallen Stars existed for him. Quirin claimed their goal was to use him to forge an alliance between humans and the Unspoken. But Locke spoke of an alternative goal—one he claimed was the Covenant's 'original' purpose. Quirin was right. The Covenant was fractured, but the fall of the laboratory was not the cause.

  Silas was.

  Maybe I'd be better off with the Unspoken. Silas slipped into his dormitory and shut the door. The pile of books Dr. Veyl had arranged around his bed did nothing to lighten his mood.