While I gasp for air, two gnarled arms wreathe my torso and squeeze. I’m impaled on the blunt knee, breath rushing from my lungs. I wrap my fingers around the plastic-encased metal arms, pushing with every fiber of muscle I have. Even with all my strength, I can’t breathe.

The thing leans its face in close to mine. When it speaks, I can see that inside those shrunken cheeks are nothing but purple gums and a wormlike tongue. “Valentine won’t go easy, Zenith,” it hisses.

I have no breath in me to tell this thing that I’m a friend.

At level three, I am deep inside. The glass shard embedded in the butt of my right palm throbs, but the pain is informational. I force myself to let go of the wire man’s arms. His knee plunges even harder into my diaphragm and my vision erupts with pinpricks of capering light. I’ve got enough oxygen for another second or two of consciousness.

So I better make it count.

In one deliberate jab, I drag the side of my right palm across the wire man’s forehead, just over his eyes. The shard peels his scalp open even as it bites deeper into my hand. The wire man shrieks in pain as warm blood gushes out over his eyes.

That anvil lifts from my chest and I fall to my knees, coughing and gagging. The wire man writhes on the ground, spewing spittle and curses from wrinkled lips. I’m able to scramble to the hallway, shove the water-warped door closed behind me on broken hinges.

I put my back against it.

Looking at my hand, medical information telegraphs into my head. I bite the fabric of my shirt sleeve and rip a piece off with my good left hand. Fabric dangling from my teeth, I yank out the blood-coated sliver of glass and drop it on mildewed carpet. I wrap my hand tightly and tie it off.

There is no pain, no urgency. There is only the Zenith.

Through the floor, I feel the tremor of fighting in another room. The Zenith tells me where Lyle is, like an intuition. I dart through the broken hallways and stairwells lit only by the grayish amplified light of my retinal. A couple of times, I see motionless people shapes lying on the floor as I pass by.

Finally, I see a blade of light on the moldering floor. Wrenching open the door, I find Lyle standing with his back to me in a wide-open room, a patch of dusky sky visible overhead. Several interior walls have been torn down and part of the ceiling opens up to the evening air. The wood floors are bleached gray and the weather has washed the trash into congealed clumps along the walls. A couple of trees are growing in here, reaching awkwardly for the ragged hole of light above.

Gaunt and tall and breathing hard, Valentine leans against the far wall, his long fingers splayed out behind him. His green eyes are wide and unblinking, collecting information. He hunches forward slightly, collarbone pushing through his olive green T-shirt. His army jacket hangs loose.

“You okay?” Lyle asks me, without looking.

“Fine,” I say. “This is not going according to plan.”

“What makes you say that?” he asks, advancing toward the cornered amp.

“Hey, number thirteen,” Valentine calls to me. He tries to grin, but a thrill of panic chases the curl out of his lip. His eyes dart back to Lyle. “How much does he know?”

“The right amount,” says Lyle, taking a step forward.

“We’re here to help you,” I say. “Stop running.”

Valentine laughs once gutturally. “You don’t know enough, kid,” he says.

“I know that Elysium has a whole dossier on you. You’ve been compromised. We’re here to warn you,” I say, walking deeper into the room.

“Check out the desk, thirteen,” says Valentine, “then get back to me.”

He lowers his forehead and trains his eyes on Lyle. His fingers have stopped drumming the wall. I look back and forth between the two soldiers. It strikes me how still they both are, like gunslingers, two sweaty palms hovering over gun butts.

“Lyle—” I begin to ask.

Quick as a mousetrap, Valentine has pulled his arms away from the wall. He wraps his thumb around his pinky and leaves the three remaining fingers splayed like knives. In the greenish light, his spotted forearms are the mottled color of a shallow ocean floor. His face looks like he’s about to cry.

“No,” says Lyle.

Valentine lets his fingers collapse into a fist: three, two, one, zero. His body shudders once, jerks as though he’s just completed an electrical circuit. Lyle is already diving forward as Valentine’s lips twitch.

I know from experience what he is saying: Three, two, one. Yes, yes, yes.

Lyle lunges and hits the wall, collapsing rotten plaster with his elbow. But Valentine is gone, already pivoted on his foot and stepped perfectly out of the way. His red hair hangs sweaty over his forehead, and underneath it I can see that his eyes have gone slack and empty in a familiar way. Breathing harshly through a snarl, he lifts one leg and blindly kicks out the window behind him.

“Shit,” mutters Lyle, as Valentine hunches like a crab and spins in place. He disappears through the window without a sound, without touching the jagged remaining glass or so much as tickling the frame. Here and gone like a vampire.

Lyle pauses, looks at the desk, then the window. Makes a decision and follows Val outside, moving just as naturally, with eyes just as dead. I can hear the iron fire escape outside clattering against the building as Lyle gives chase.

On Val’s rust-eaten metal desk, a spray of papers and folders lie open. My retinal is picking out the words in the dim light before I can even think of reading them. Mission Analysis and Planning. Familiar names pop out of the dense text: Stilman, Daley, Valentine, and Lyle Crosby. My name. And the names of places: Houston, Chicago, Detroit.

 … necessary to execute synchronous combat operations on key political targets to continue decreasing regional stability…

The words describe a battle plan.

. . . escalate operations to precipitate “crisis moment” that spur regional factions to engage local forces independently, triggering widespread chaos…

Civil war.

. . . as a Zenith you have a destiny, Valentine. Failure to respond to this proposal will be recognized as a tacit rejection of your duty to your squad, your people, and to Astra. It will be met with lethal response…

And the signature at the bottom: Lyle Crosby.

The laughing cowboy doesn’t want to warn Valentine; Lyle is here to kill a rogue Zenith.

My world realigns, shifts into new focus. On the roof, Lyle is doing his best to murder an innocent man who refused to join him in a new war.

Cradling my hurt hand, I duck through the window and onto the rattling fire escape. I climb the rungs, one-handed, my cloth-wrapped palm stained with dirt. The sun has just slunk over the horizon, leaving the clouds bloody.

A gunshot punches into the twilight as I reach the top of the ladder. Pigeon wings flap in my ears like an echo. I peek over the edge.

The rotten sloping roof is empty. Dirty-pink insulation peeks through collapsed holes like diseased flesh. At the far edge, two silhouettes embrace. Lyle holds the gun in his right hand. His left arm is wrapped around Valentine’s shoulder. He lowers Val to the rooftop.

“Sorry,” I hear him murmur. “I’m sorry, Val.”

Valentine lies on his side. He tucks his right hand under his left armpit, forearm over the wound to his chest, shoulders arched in pain. His breath is coming in shudders and his shirt is dark and heavy with spreading blood. Lyle crouches next to the fallen soldier, head bowed, his back to me.

Val’s green eyes open and he spots me. His mouth spreads into a red smile, teeth washed in blood. “Thirteen,” he chokes. “Good luck.”

Lyle stands up and faces me. I watch him, motionless. Only my head is visible over the lip of the roof.