injured ankle. Roach hadn’t bothered sitting; she’d just wrapped her arms around her chest, her head down as she shivered.
Gadren stood straight as ever, keeping watch.
Namir spit out a curse, tore off his helmet, rolled up his sleeves, and began inspecting his skin. He searched for a rash, a blister, any fresh blemish. He found nothing, and pounded his palms against the ground in frustration.
The others were watching him now. He slowed his breathing, tried to calm himself. “How bad do we look?” he asked Gadren, voice low and steady.
Gadren lowered his head and didn’t answer.
“Does anyone know what
happened
?” he asked. “Did we breathe something? Were we sprayed with biotoxins and I just didn’t notice?”
Roach didn’t look up. Brand sounded bitter as she said, “Doesn’t take much to have an effect. We might have cracked a container somewhere.”
Or maybe
, Namir thought,
you shouldn’t have picked the blue barrel.
But he loathed himself for the idea even as it sprang to his mind. Brand wasn’t at fault.
“Whatever it was,” Gadren said, “I seem to be immune.”
“Maybe,” Brand said. “Might just affect you slower.”
“Also possible,” Gadren conceded.
Namir squeezed his eyes shut and cinched the strap of his rifle, tried to evaluate his aches and the pain in his skull. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Anyone feel like they’re about to die? Anyone not able to walk another hour or two?”
No one spoke up.
“Then we keep moving,” he said. “Not much we can do here, so hold your guts in until we get to a medic.”
When they finally reached the rendezvous point, there was no drop ship waiting.
Namir didn’t have a backup plan. If the drop ship didn’t arrive, they were all dead. Even Gadren, who still showed no signs of illness. Even Brand, who could live through anything.
Namir didn’t tell his squad that. In the morning, as they picked at rations that none of them had the appetite for, he told them they’d wait for the drop ship as long as they could. There would be no attempts at communication; if they tried to send a message through the satellite uplink, odds were the Imperials would detect the signal. Besides, he didn’t expect their transport had
forgotten
about the pickup. If the drop ship could come, it would come.
In a worst-case scenario, Namir explained, they would hike toward the front lines and hope to reunite with the rest of Twilight Company. He didn’t tell the group that such an attempt would be suicide and he had no intention of trying it.
He didn’t think anyone believed him anyway.
Roach had turned pale overnight, her clammy skin now glistening with moisture. Brand kept her dignity better, but Namir caught her slipping away from camp to vomit in the underbrush. Namir’s headache came and went, which was a small mercy; during its worst periods, he saw colorful spots and was overwhelmed by vertigo.
After breakfast came the busywork. Patrols. Equipment checks. Scouting for food and water. Planning escape routes from the camp. Listening to static for unencrypted Imperial comm chatter. Listening to static for unencrypted rebel comm chatter. Listening to static for unencrypted Coyerti comm chatter. Equipment maintenance. Camouflage touch-ups. Wound inspections. Teaching Roach to use the uplink. Teaching Roach to disassemble and repair the uplink in case of emergency. Erasing patrol trails. Erasing trails left while erasing patrol trails.
Namir kept his people occupied until nightfall. Then they huddled around the heater while Gadren kept watch, none of them able to sleep.
Roach had pulled her knees to her chest inside her bedroll, then drawn the bedroll’s length around herself. She was still shivering. Namir found himself watching her, and when his skull didn’t feel too tight around his brain to think he realized how little she had said since the Distillery.
He wondered if she was thinking about her decision to leave Haidoral Prime, or about the
Gadren stood straight as ever, keeping watch.
Namir spit out a curse, tore off his helmet, rolled up his sleeves, and began inspecting his skin. He searched for a rash, a blister, any fresh blemish. He found nothing, and pounded his palms against the ground in frustration.
The others were watching him now. He slowed his breathing, tried to calm himself. “How bad do we look?” he asked Gadren, voice low and steady.
Gadren lowered his head and didn’t answer.
“Does anyone know what
happened
?” he asked. “Did we breathe something? Were we sprayed with biotoxins and I just didn’t notice?”
Roach didn’t look up. Brand sounded bitter as she said, “Doesn’t take much to have an effect. We might have cracked a container somewhere.”
Or maybe
, Namir thought,
you shouldn’t have picked the blue barrel.
But he loathed himself for the idea even as it sprang to his mind. Brand wasn’t at fault.
“Whatever it was,” Gadren said, “I seem to be immune.”
“Maybe,” Brand said. “Might just affect you slower.”
“Also possible,” Gadren conceded.
Namir squeezed his eyes shut and cinched the strap of his rifle, tried to evaluate his aches and the pain in his skull. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Anyone feel like they’re about to die? Anyone not able to walk another hour or two?”
No one spoke up.
“Then we keep moving,” he said. “Not much we can do here, so hold your guts in until we get to a medic.”
When they finally reached the rendezvous point, there was no drop ship waiting.
Namir didn’t have a backup plan. If the drop ship didn’t arrive, they were all dead. Even Gadren, who still showed no signs of illness. Even Brand, who could live through anything.
Namir didn’t tell his squad that. In the morning, as they picked at rations that none of them had the appetite for, he told them they’d wait for the drop ship as long as they could. There would be no attempts at communication; if they tried to send a message through the satellite uplink, odds were the Imperials would detect the signal. Besides, he didn’t expect their transport had
forgotten
about the pickup. If the drop ship could come, it would come.
In a worst-case scenario, Namir explained, they would hike toward the front lines and hope to reunite with the rest of Twilight Company. He didn’t tell the group that such an attempt would be suicide and he had no intention of trying it.
He didn’t think anyone believed him anyway.
Roach had turned pale overnight, her clammy skin now glistening with moisture. Brand kept her dignity better, but Namir caught her slipping away from camp to vomit in the underbrush. Namir’s headache came and went, which was a small mercy; during its worst periods, he saw colorful spots and was overwhelmed by vertigo.
After breakfast came the busywork. Patrols. Equipment checks. Scouting for food and water. Planning escape routes from the camp. Listening to static for unencrypted Imperial comm chatter. Listening to static for unencrypted rebel comm chatter. Listening to static for unencrypted Coyerti comm chatter. Equipment maintenance. Camouflage touch-ups. Wound inspections. Teaching Roach to use the uplink. Teaching Roach to disassemble and repair the uplink in case of emergency. Erasing patrol trails. Erasing trails left while erasing patrol trails.
Namir kept his people occupied until nightfall. Then they huddled around the heater while Gadren kept watch, none of them able to sleep.
Roach had pulled her knees to her chest inside her bedroll, then drawn the bedroll’s length around herself. She was still shivering. Namir found himself watching her, and when his skull didn’t feel too tight around his brain to think he realized how little she had said since the Distillery.
He wondered if she was thinking about her decision to leave Haidoral Prime, or about the
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