hidden away where nothing ever changes. Where there is no Federation. No Mara. No Ghosts or Skyhunters or war machines. Just this, the curious, quiet, intimate companionship between us. The desire for something more.
It’s evening by the time I finally dry myself from the pool and step back out in my full gear. Red says nothing as I go, but when I exit the bathhouse, I feel something shift in our bond. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but as I head to the apartment, I find myself lingering on what has changed between us, and why I find myself trying to picture his face there in the dimness, the air around him still haloed in light.
20
Red. Myself. Adena. Jeran. It is a mission that no one wants to be on.
Red will knowingly let himself be captured by Federation forces, and through our link, we’ll track him back into the heart of the Federation, to the laboratory complex where they’ll take him. He will find a way to open the complex for us from the inside. According to him, each Ghost at the complex has a syringe embedded in its arm at all times, feeding it nutrients and medications that come from a central control room. If Adena can get into that room, she can contaminate their concoction with the serum. What happens after that is an open door. Perhaps the newly freed Ghosts will attack no one at all, be as confused and stripped of bloodlust as the Ghost we tested. Perhaps we’ll find a way to escape, or die fighting our way out of those labs. Or perhaps our tactic won’t work, or we won’t be able to do it effectively enough, and the Ghosts will react in a way that’s entirely unpredictable. Perhaps, in their confusion, they’ll try to attack anyone near them, including Karensan soldiers.
We have to wait until the Firstblade approves of our plan—but honestly, there’s not much of a decision to make. We can all see that this is our only chance.
The plan spins endlessly in my mind tonight as the four of us walk past the mess hall, where Strikers currently fill the long tables, eager to celebrate before we rotate out to the warfront again. Jeran and I sign to each other in conversation, but Adena and Red are both quiet and exhausted—Red from being bled as much as he can bear and Adena from making and packaging crates of serum to be shipped to the warfront. Still, the new companionship between the two of them is encouraging. The air carries with it the sharp cold of winter and the scent of hot cider and tea. Outside the mess hall doors, they’ve already started hanging up wreaths of pine and berries for the first day of Midwinter’s two-week-long festivities. The windows are lined with dangling droplets of golden cones and shining metal scraps. They cast a kaleidoscope of light against the cold streets. Even in a grim year like this one, we still try to scrape up some good cheer.
We continue on past the hall and out through the double walls, until we’re in the Outer City’s paths headed toward my mother’s home. Most other nations celebrate Midwinter too, and along the narrow corridors, bright strips of fabric hang from clothing lines between the stalls, while others burn circles of candles and lanterns outside the doors to their shacks. I can smell the cooking wafting from each tiny home, peppers and spices and sauces foreign to Mara, and the aromas make my stomach rumble. We ignore the stares we get from the vendors, this group of four Strikers out patrolling through the shanties. They duck nervously when I notice them. You’d think they’d know me by now—that my intentions here have nothing to do with them. But for some, our uniforms are enough to keep them hidden. And the way the guards treat them here, who can blame them?
My mother is already outside when we arrive on her street. She’s pieced together a haphazard set of crates, barrels, and giant metal tins in front of the open door, creating a jigsaw of a table and chairs for us to sit on, and covered the entire spread with an old blanket. On top is what would be considered a feast out here in the shanties—fragrant hand-rolled noodles tossed with herbs from her garden, fried minnow cakes, flat seaflour bread, and tiny squares of a sticky treat sweetened with sugarweed