The pool of purplish sap shifted once more, this time without being disturbed by Adam’s flames.

  Then the unthinkable happened.

  With the force of a geyser, the thick, molten mass shot skyward like a liquid column, puncturing the dome’s peak and melting the translucent fabric as quickly as a flame destroys a plastic bag.

  A sizzling sound followed, and within seconds, the tent was roofless.

  Burnt scraps of the cover rained down on Adam and Vicky, who were still frozen in shock.

  The tower of purple tar, standing tall like a cobra swaying to a charmer’s tune, emitted flatulent noises, swayed its neck high in the air, and struck the dome’s structure. The skeletal frame shuddered, groaning, and the rattling of loosened screws announced that the beams were about to collapse.

  “Watch out!” Vicky yelled, shielding herself with her arms. Moving while everything was collapsing around them wasn’t exactly an option.

  The steel rods broke free from their joints, and the structure crumbled, crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust, dragging down the airtight door and whatever remained of the plastic cover that hadn’t already been incinerated.

  The men in gray, who had been outside the dome watching everything fall apart, witnessed the violent manifestation of the substance and didn’t take long to abandon their posts and vanish into the jungle.

  Reed, however, didn’t move. Like a loyal servant, the android remained frozen in place, standing before the fallen door. Not that he would’ve moved even if someone had ordered him to. The moment the Ita-Hu exposed its insides within the still-intact dome, the Cyclops’s processors had failed—though with all the chaos, none of the agents around him had heard the crackling of his microcircuits burning out. And now, as the substance rose into the sky, his capacitors burst one after another beneath his silicone-and-metal muscles, and smoke hissed out through his joints.

  Reed’s red eye light flickered out just as the dome’s sealed environment ceased to exist.

  If the Ita-Hu had harbored any pathogen undetected by Adam and Vicky’s cuffs, that threat was now spreading into the jungle. A terrifying thought, though for the two of them, there was a more immediate concern: the smoking column of liquid amethyst now threatening to crash down on them.

  Vicky shot her partner a look, and he got the message instantly. Adam tried to fly—but couldn’t. The intensified gravity field was still in effect and held him down.

  “Hurry!” Vicky shouted, and they broke into a run toward the trees, moving as fast as the radiation-laced weight in their legs allowed.

  A shadow fell over them. They glanced back and saw the massive pillar of mineral sap collapse into a dark, viscous wave surging toward them. They had no choice but to brace for the impact and hope it wouldn’t hit as hard as it looked—and that their suits could withstand the heat of that steaming mass.

  The hit slammed them face-first into the ground and dragged them like a powerful wave crashing into the shore.

  As he was swept away by the current, still wearing his oxygen mask and protective hood, Adam instinctively shut his eyes and clamped his mouth shut in case the substance seeped in.

  He felt the heat of the stuff wrapping around him, its crushing force tossing him like he was inside a washing machine—spinning, spinning, spinning—and being slammed into something hard—the ground—then into something even harder—probably one of the dome’s metal supports—and yanked around by the sheer momentum.

  But the worst part was the suffocating panic, the fear that he’d keep spinning until it ended him.

  I’m gonna die here! he thought.

  While being dragged, Vicky managed to lift an arm and launched a Fotia blast, hoping—naively—that her shot might do something against the goo. The glowing orb vanished into the purple sea, and the chaos raged on.

  The scalding wave swept them across the couple dozen yards between the rock and the edge of the clearing, like it was trying to shove them away. It finally dumped them, bruised and battered, at the base of the forest’s first line of trees.

  Once the surge passed, the substance retracted on its own back toward the Ita-Hu. Moving in reverse like a rewound video, it returned to a puddle under the hole it had come from, leaving behind a slick, sticky film across the cracked ground.

  Vicky had landed on her back against a tree. The impact had knocked the air out of her lungs, numbed her spine, and tightened her waist so much that, for a second, she couldn’t feel her legs and feared she was paralyzed.

  The sensation came back right away—but it came with needles of pain. Slowly, she forced herself upright. She rested her hands on her knees, waited to catch her breath, then straightened up cautiously, trying not to pull anything.

  Once the spinning in her head finally stopped, a sharp smell hit her nose and made her throat itch: the stench of the substance—like overheated tar—mixed with melted plastic from the dome and the stirred-up soil. Even with her suit hood still on, the impact had knocked loose the inner mask that covered her face, leaving her nose exposed.

  And that wasn’t all. When she focused, she saw the stain on her visor wasn’t residue from the substance—it was a crack.

  She cursed under her breath and, fingers crossed, hoped the readings from her bracelet’s detectors were right about the lack of biohazards. Then, heart pounding, she checked for other damage.

  Aside from the slippery film of purple slime clinging to the suit’s surface, the rest seemed intact.

  Reed, the android, lay a few feet away, twisted into a position no human could survive without several broken bones, covered in the same oily residue.

  I could’ve ended up like that, she thought.

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  “Halstein, do you copy?” she asked then.

  Only static filled her ears. The violet surge must’ve wrecked the transmitters, or…

  She checked her wristbands. Dead. Not just the comms—her suit’s electronics must’ve been fried by a surge.

  A little ways off, Adam carried the weight of his injuries like a concrete block strapped to his waist. He got up, groaning, with a stabbing pain under his right shoulder blade, a pulled muscle in his left thigh, and a burning scrape across his stomach.

  It was the second time he’d been thrashed like that—the first had been just days ago, when Kitty had flung him through the air at the nature reserve. He definitely needed to stay away from anything resembling raw nature; trees and trauma could prove fatal next time around.

  He stumbled between sunlight and shadows at the forest’s edge, until he regained his balance and felt the breeze running through his hair, brushing the back of his neck. He reached behind and found that both his hood and mask had been torn away from the rest of his chemical protection suit.

  ‘As long as you keep your suits on, there’s nothing to fear,’ the redheaded biologist had said—but real panic set in when he looked down to check the scrape on his hip and saw that the fabric had torn right there.

  If that black rock had released any contaminant, it might already be inside him.

  Then he felt something in his crotch—something warm and sticky—seeping under the suit. Panic turned to terror. Oh god. Had he… crapped himself?

  No. That wasn’t it.

  The sticky purple sap had leaked in through the tear in the suit and soaked the blue athletic pants he wore underneath. Honestly, though? As humiliating as the alternative would’ve been, he almost wished that was it.

  He shoved his gloved hands into the tear and tried to wipe off the living goo—but all he managed to do was shred his gloves, tear the fabric of his pants, and splatter some of that amethyst slime across his thigh.

  “Vicky...” he called, trying to sound calm, though the terror in his eyes gave him away.

  “Relax. I don’t think the substance is toxic,” Vicky said—and to give her words more weight, she pulled off her damaged hood and mask.

  Since she’d been exposed too, there was no point in keeping the suit on. Letting her bronzed face breathe, she shook out her black hair, letting the faint breeze dry the sweat trickling down her cheeks.

  Following her lead, Adam removed his own hood and mask. Tired of the heat and discomfort, he took it a step further: he undid the suit’s straps, unzipped it, and—disgusted by the oily film clinging to the fabric—peeled it off completely, along with the torn gloves. Only the boots stayed on.

  “You think we’ll get fined for wrecking the suits?” he asked, tension breaking into a nervous laugh.

  Vicky took off her suit with a mix of caution and urgency. Like him, she left the boots on—but unlike him, she kept the gloves. Hers had held up, and she wasn’t about to touch something like that sap without protection.

  After all the chaos, the heat, the humidity, the freedom of just wearing their athletic clothes again felt like a blessing.

  From her suit’s belt, Vicky retrieved the plastic vial—thankfully still intact—and tucked it into her pants pocket. The sample seemed less important after everything that happened, but a mission was still a mission.

  They left their wrecked suits on the ground and turned to head back. But—

  Gloop, glop, glorp…

  The muffled sound of bubbling sap reached their ears; the puddle of liquid mineral was stirring again, releasing that same nauseating tar stink.

  Wary of being caught in another goo surge, they forgot the pain from their bruises and scrambled for cover behind the trees, careful not to slip on the oily film coating the ground.

  The Ita-Hu’s purple blood rose again, forming a column and spinning on its axis, turning into a vortex that blasted jets of hot steam—just like a chimney would.

  Adam stared, more stunned than scared.

  “Do you know of any weird radiation or whatever that could explain this?”

  Vicky shook her head. But deep down, she suspected something new was coming. Another attack.

  Better to miss the show than be swallowed by it.

  They no longer had their suits, which—even damaged—might’ve offered some protection if that violet tar came for them again. Taking them off had been a bad call. Now there was no time to go back and put them on.

  “Let’s go,” she said to Adam.

  But a rustling in the underbrush caught their attention—footsteps, many footsteps. A group of agents emerged beside them, cutting through the path that wound through the dense foliage.

  Adam knew these weren’t ordinary Satellites, despite the inevitable dark glasses and the same stony expression that seemed to be standard among the agents he had encountered before.

  These five men looked like they’d been cast from the same mold: all tall and broad-shouldered, with bodies sculpted by weightlifting; rough features, prominent jaws, and military-style haircuts slicked back; none older than thirty.

  Five young, rugged men holding massive weapons that reached nearly to the treetops. They could have passed for a squad of soldiers—if not for their clothing. All five wore morning coats.

  Black jackets, knee-length and immaculate, as if just picked up from the dry cleaner’s—gray vests, gray shirts, dark ties and gloves, gray trousers with visible cuffs, and black leather shoes. And on the lapels of their jackets, near the chest, each bore a silver pin marked with a designation, from One to Five.

  Adam, who knew a thing or two about clothing from his modeling days, estimated their sleek ensemble must’ve cost at least as much as the protective suits he and Vicky had just destroyed.

  “Impressive,” he muttered, then immediately revised his opinion as he considered their surroundings. “Ridiculous.”

  Vicky focused on the enormous assault rifles each of the agents carried. She recognized the design: it was an S747, a rifle with two barrels of different calibers. The upper barrel was slim, measuring about a third of an inch in diameter, while the lower one was a grenade launcher with a two-inch bore—wide enough to fit a tennis ball.

  Managing to traverse the jungle while keeping such an immaculate appearance and hauling weapons like those—heavy enough to throw off anyone’s balance—was a feat that left Adam gawking at them, not even trying to be subtle.

  Without looking away from the swirling tar-like vortex, the five men in morning coats moved closer to them.

  “Agent Number One, Satellite Force Team,” introduced the one who was perhaps the tallest of the five—assuming there even was a height difference among them. He towered almost two heads above Vicky. His skin was dark brown, and his broad lips were framed by thick black eyebrows that jutted out above his sunglasses. Like the others, the brooch on his chest displayed his designation.

  Vicky had heard of the Satellite Force Team during her time with the Imperialist forces. Their reputation preceded them—for both good and ill. The Satellite Force Team, or F-Team as they were often called, was known for their brute strength and lack of finesse. According to her father and other seasoned officers, F-Team was a bunch of cocky, trigger-happy kids who loved to bask in their rockstar-like aura. Soon, it seemed, Vicky would have the pleasure of forming her own opinion.

  None of the agents were wearing masks or any visible chemical protection, which meant there were no immediate threats in the environment. It was unlikely that Halstein—having already witnessed the Ita-Hu phenomenon—would’ve sent his top men in without proper precautions, if that had been the case. Good. One less thing to worry about.

  “By order of the Division Chief, you are to return to the camp,” said Number One. “We’ll take care of the situation from here.”

  Vicky crossed her arms and gestured toward the churning purple tornado. “Alright, Number One, what makes you think you can handle this? It doesn’t matter if your rifles are S747s—bullets won’t take that thing down.”

  The towering agent locked eyes with Vicky. He didn’t bother looking in the direction she indicated; he stood still, waiting for her to comply. He had said his piece.