THE ACCESS CARD LIES ON the floor where I dropped it. I pick it up, open the door, and walk out. “This way.”
The exit where Atikéa waits with an escape vehicle shouldn’t take too long to reach. I don’t know how much time has passed, and I hope she’ll still be there by the time we reach the meeting place. She wouldn’t leave me behind, but what if she gets caught?
Then, I’ll find another way out. I square my shoulders and march down the corridor, leading Dámiul and the blank-faced Martoke. Whatever Dámiul’s doing to keep his hold over Martoke, it’s taking its toll. Red rims his eyes, and his nose keeps bleeding. Crimson stains his hands from all the times he’s had to wipe the blood away, and his breath trembles. Yet his eyes are as bright as ever, in sharp contrast to Martoke’s dull, empty gaze.
I wish we could run and get out of here as quickly as possible, but I don’t think Dámiul has it in him to go any faster. Though he keeps his posture upright and holds his head high, I can tell how much effort his movements are taking.
A pair of metal gates lies ahead. I approach the security pad and tap the access card against it. The pad glows red, and the doors remain shut. I try again, but it makes no difference.
Martoke steps forward and pulls an access card from his pocket, his movements mechanical in their stiffness. The security pad turns green after Martoke taps his card against it, and the doors open, revealing an indigo-clad guard. The guard stops and turns to us.
I freeze, unsure of what to do.
The guard approaches with a questioning look, and Martoke steps forward. I glance at Dámiul, who keeps his brightly glowing eyes fixed on him.
“En swar fac?” The guard knits his eyebrows with confusion.
Martoke puts his hands behind his back. His response comes out stiff and stilted. I pray the guard won’t notice there’s something wrong with him. I can’t understand his words, but I imagine Dámiul is trying to make the guard believe that Martoke is the one in charge, and we’re his prisoners.
The guard eyes Martoke uneasily, then glances at me. “Glan fith en Ka’risil dosketh?”
Martoke answers, his tone is firmer than before. He says something that sounds like a command, and I recognize the word for “leave.”
The guard’s gaze shifts to Dámiul, and his eyes widen. He speaks rapidly and gestures at Dámiul, clearly concerned.
Martoke opens his mouth to speak, then freezes. Behind him, Dámiul doubles over and starts coughing violently.
I rush toward him, but Dámiul holds up a hand, halting me. He covers his mouth with his arm and tries to straighten, then doubles over again.
The guard shouts at Martoke, his voice rising with alarm. Then, the luminosity returns to Martoke’s eyes, and he looks around with an expression of bewilderment, which soon turns to rage.
Dámiul must have lost his hold over him. I try not to let the fear threatening to overwhelm me enter my mind.
Martoke opens his mouth to speak. Before any words can emerge, Dámiul lunges at the guard and grabs the weapon attached to his belt. He fires twice, and flashes of white fill the air. Martoke falls toward me, and I jump out of the way. Beside him, the guard’s eyes flutter shut, and he crumples to the ground.
Dámiul’s hand shakes, and blood crawls down the side of his mouth. He wipes it away, then crouches over the unconscious Martoke and takes the access card still clasped in his fist.
He straightens and hands me the card. “Lead the way.” His eyes have returned to their usual glow, no longer blinding.
A part of me is glad that we ran into the guard, since it means Dámiul no longer needs to control Martoke. He looks so tired, and I wonder how he’s still standing. I wish I had some way to help him, but the only thing I can do is lead him out.
“Faster, before someone realizes something’s wrong.” Dámiul quickens his pace to a run, passing me.
I speed up as well, marveling at his energy.
A dead end lies ahead, with metal gates on either side. Knowing the left one leads to another corridor, I tap Martoke’s access card against the security pad. To my relief, it opens.
Something clatters behind me, and I whirl. The weapon lies on the floor, and Dámiul collapses beside it. He falls on his back, convulsing violently.
“Dámiul!” I drop down next to him. What do I do? I slide my hand beneath the back of his head to keep it from striking the hard floor.
“Clogamo!” Even though it means capture, I scream for help as loudly as I can.
Dámiul meets my gaze, teeth clenched. “Go!”
Does he really expect me to abandon him? I continue yelling. “Shraïn! Ona clogamo torna!” The Adryil think of themselves as good people, don’t they? It’s a matter of pride with them. They have to help him; they wouldn’t leave him like this. I take his hand. “It’s going to be okay.”
He tries to speak, but uncontrollable spasms wrack his body.
I know what he’s trying to tell me and shake my head. “I came for you, and I won’t leave you.” I look up, hoping to see someone rushing our way, but only empty hallways lie ahead. I open my mouth to yell again.
“Don’t!” Dámiul grabs my hand.
I look at him. His eyelids droop with weakness, but, to my relief, he’s no longer shaking.
“It passed. I’m all right.” His voice is firm, but I’m not sure I believe him. “We can make it.” He lets go of my hand and starts pushing himself off the floor. He manages to sit up, then lists to the side.
I catch his shoulders. “Dámiul…”
“I just need a moment.” His eyelids droop.
If we still have a chance at escaping, I’ll take it. He can’t stay here, with the people who did this to him. “Is there anything I can do?”
He shakes his head. “I think it’s the drugs Martoke injected me with. Or maybe it’s because of what I did to him.” He looks up, and, in spite of everything, lifts his bloodstained mouth in a half-smile. “I made my brain do something it wasn’t meant to do, and I think it’s revolting.” He gives me a firm look. “If I collapse again, go on without me.”
“No! Dámiul—”
“It won’t make a difference if you stay. The same thing will happen to me whether you’re here or not. You might as well escape.”
“I’m either leaving with you or not at all.” I don’t care what consequences my stubbornness brings, or how idiotic my actions may be. I could never live with myself if I left him behind. I look him in the eye to make sure he knows I mean what I say.
He stares at me incredulously. “There’s no way I can persuade you to save yourself, is there?”
“Not a chance.”
“Then, we’d better make it out.” Dámiul pushes himself up. I hold his arm and help him.
An ominous whirring sounds from the corridor ahead. I turn toward it to find a security bot wheeling toward me.
Alarmed, I grab the card I dropped and tap it against the security pad. The doors slide toward each other, but freeze halfway. The red lights on the security bot flash, and it raises one of its metal arms.
Dámiul grabs the weapon on the floor. Crouching behind the door, he fires down the corridor. Sparks spew from the bot, but it keeps approaching. I duck beside him, hoping the door is thick enough to shield us. Dámiul fires again and again, until the bot topples onto its side. Bright lines of electric blue run down its metal body, and its lights darken.
“We should go.” Dámiul stands. His head falls forward, and he grabs the wall for support.
I get up as well, but I barely make it two steps before a second bot rounds the corner, followed by a third. Behind them, four guards run toward us, each holding a weapon like the one in Dámiul’s hand.
“Get down!” Dámiul steps in front of me and fires at the oncoming attackers.
Terrified, I duck by the door. Dámiul’s white blasts take down one of the security bots. I look up at him. His face is a strange combination of exhaustion and strength, as though his body’s telling him to give up, and he’s refusing by sheer force of will. He leans his shoulder against the door and fires out at the attackers. How is he still fighting? I think the door is the only thing keeping him upright.
A spasm shakes his body. I gasp and spring up. He grabs the edge of the door and coughs violently. Though he covers his mouth, blood escapes. I hold his arm, trying to keep him from falling.
He collapses against me, unconscious.
“Dámiul!” I lower him to the ground.
A blast rings through the air. I whirl. One bot remains, and the four guards slow to a walk. Behind them, another bot rounds the corner.
That’s it—we’re finished. Dámiul’s fallen, and I…
My gaze lands on Dámiul’s weapon, which lies in his limp grasp. I can pull a trigger, can’t I?
I grab the weapon and aim it at the security bot. I stay crouched and fire over and over. The security bot turns its weapon toward me, and I scramble to get out of the way. I keep pulling the trigger, encouraged by the sight of spewing sparks.
It’s not over until I fall, too. My shots are erratic, and only a fraction of them hit their targets. The guards’ blasts fly toward me, and I press myself against the door, keeping as little of myself exposed as possible.
Again and again—I just keep firing. The security bot finally falls, but the guards are drawing close. My heart pounds, and a surge of heat swallows me. Don’t stop, I tell myself.
Another group of guards rounds the corner. I don’t stand a chance. What will happen when they catch me? I can fight as bravely as I want, but I can’t fight forever. Soon, the guards will reach the doors, and I’ll have no way to hide.
We’re as good as gone.
I recall Dámiul’s steadfast strength and fire anyway. I fire and fire, even though I know I’m waiting for my doom.
A white flash fills the air. I squeeze my eyes against its blinding brilliance. When I open them, I see three guards lying unconscious on the ground. The others shout at each other, and they seem confused. One shoots at me, but the others turn and fire in the direction the blast came from.
What’s happening? My finger keeps pulling the trigger.
Another burst of white. I briefly turn away from the glaring light, then look out again. A figure rounds the corner, wielding a pair of weapons.