Despite his speed, the tactical display showed a handful of Umbral and Solmarch pilots abandoning their fight with each other, vectoring onto his tail to chase the greater prize. Evan jinked left, then right, the ship responding instantly. Energy weapons flickered across the distance between them, the bolts of light cutting through the same air the Ascendant had just occupied and streaking past both his port and starboard viewports.

  The starfighters were closing. Another few seconds and they'd be in effective range, their weapons finding the Ascendant instead of empty air.

  Evan's hand moved to the throttle. In space, he'd learned how the ship's strange propulsion system could reverse direction almost instantaneously, even from high velocity. In the atmosphere, with thrust and lift—not to mention gravity—complicating the equation, he had no idea what would happen.

  Only one way to find out.

  He slid the throttle back past neutral into negative range. The thrusters cut out immediately, their roar dying to silence. For a moment the Ascendant seemed to hang suspended, momentum carrying it forward while whatever force the ship used for propulsion pulled in the opposite direction. His inner ear screamed that he was falling backward. His eyes insisted he was still moving forward. Then the deceleration hit, brutal and sudden, and his vision grayed at the edges as the command seat absorbed forces that would have killed him in any conventional aircraft.

  The pursuing starfighters shot past. One moment they were closing on their target, weapons charging. The next, that target had practically stopped while they continued at maximum velocity, leaving them no time to react as their momentum carried them ahead of the Ascendant before their pilots could even understand what had happened.

  Evan's vision cleared. A loose cluster of five starfighters was in front of him, their pilots frantically trying to reverse course. But they weren't aircraft. They couldn't maneuver quickly in atmosphere.

  He fired. The resonance wave caught all of them. The expanding distortion did what it had done before—cracked armor, killed systems, turned functioning spacecraft into nothing but metal debris that tumbled from the sky.

  "Yeeeeeesssssss!" The word tore out of Evan before he could stop it, a primal shout of triumph that echoed through the empty bridge. He slid the throttle forward and the Ascendant surged ahead, leaving the wreckage of the dogfight behind.

  The tactical display showed clear space around him now, but the larger picture was less encouraging. The Möbius still hung in orbit, its twisted hull visible on the long-range sensors. The Solmarch capital ships were there too, but their formation had changed. The surviving vessels were moving away from the planet, their vectors suggesting retreat. Sarxon had won the orbital battle. The Möbius was too much for the Solmarch, and they had lost their chance to capture the Ascendant. Whatever happened now was out of their control.

  Evan had bought himself some time, nothing more. The Möbius couldn't follow him down into the atmosphere. Whatever starfighters Sarxon had left couldn't defeat him. But Evan had no doubt she'd do whatever she could to make sure the Ascendant never left the planet under any control but hers.

  He scanned the terrain ahead. The ruins stretched in every direction, broken towers and collapsed structures creating a maze of shadows and debris. Most of it felt too exposed, too visible from orbit. He could only hope that all of the metal on the surface would interfere with Möbius's sensors and give him a chance to hide.

  A larger cityscape emerged on the horizon, more substantial than the scattered ruin he'd been flying over. The structures there had been massive once—megalithic towers that must have dominated the skyline when they were whole. Near the center of the dead metropolis, one building caught his attention. A tower, larger than its neighbors, with its upper section collapsed inward. As he got closer to it, he could see that the damage had left it hollow, the interior walls forming a vertical shaft that extended from ground level to a ragged opening hundreds of meters above. The space inside was easily large enough to hide the Ascendant.

  If he could get the ship in there without crashing it.

  Evan banked toward it, already reaching for the control—the horizontal bar with angled branches—that would retract the wings, and pressed it. The thrusters deactivated, the wings folded back into the hull, and the joystick flattened back into a trackpad. The Ascendant dropped as its lift vanished, the ship's propulsion system straining to compensate. Power consumption spiked on the display, the indicators dropping visibly as the system fought to keep the ship level against planetary gravity.

  He guided the Ascendant toward the hollow tower, his hand tense over the trackpad. The ancient walls rose around him as he descended, the ship shuddering dangerously as it was exposed to the same forces, though on a much smaller scale, that had damaged the Red Scar transport. The gap between his hull and the surrounding structure was less than a few meters. Sweat beaded Evan's forehead as he fought to keep from slamming into the walls.

  The ship lurched, probably his own overcorrection, or maybe a gust of wind channeling through the ruined structure. The starboard side scraped the wall, the cracks in the ancient masonry visible through the viewports. He overcorrected. The deck tilted as the ship swung toward the opposite wall, and somewhere deep in the hull something whined. It was a sound he'd never heard before, systems straining at their limits.

  Down. He needed to get down now.

  Evan killed the throttle and let gravity take the ship. The Ascendant dropped, the descent barely controlled, the tower walls flashing past the viewports in a blur of weathered stone. He slid his left index finger down on the trackpad and his right up on the throttle as it appeared. He felt the ship fight to arrest its fall, every surface rattling with strain.

  The ship must have sensed ground beneath it and the intention to land. Evan felt the vibrations as landing gear of some kind unfolded from the ventral hull—shock absorbers and stabilizers deploying in the seconds before impact.

  The Ascendant hit hard. Hard enough to rattle Evan's teeth, hard enough to jar his hands off the controls. But the struts held, absorbing the impact, settling the ship onto the stone floor of the hollow tower. The background hum of the propulsion system faded to standby. The sound that had filled the bridge since atmospheric entry gave way to silence, leaving only the soft resonance of basic systems.

  Evan sat motionless in the command seat, his hands shaking, his heart trying to punch through his sternum. He'd made it. He checked the power indicators and saw the cost—nearly half his remaining reserves consumed by the entry, the combat, the desperate landing. But he was down. He was hidden. It would take Sarxon time to assemble a ground force capable of searching this dead city, and time was something he desperately needed.

  The nausea suddenly came roaring back.

  It had been lurking since the atmospheric entry, held at bay by adrenaline and survival instinct. Now, with nothing left to fight, nothing left to flee, the sickness overwhelmed his defenses. Evan lurched out of the command seat on unsteady legs and made it to the lift shaft through sheer willpower, descending to Deck Two with one hand pressed against his churning stomach.

  The transfer chamber waited in its alcove, the green grid pulsing softly. He stumbled into position and triggered the return sequence, letting the light wash over him.

  The cell materialized around his consciousness. He was lying on the cot, the effigy clutched in his hands, its white hull and orange bands absurdly small after everything he'd just experienced. He dropped the toy starship onto the mattress and rolled off the cot, his legs barely holding him as he staggered to the toilet in the corner.

  Everything came up. Coffee, bile, whatever else his stomach had been holding—all of it emptying into the steel bowl with violent heaves that left him shaking. His knuckles went white on the cold metal rim as his body purged the terror and the triumph together, unable to distinguish between them.

  "Mr. Marshall?" Halsey's voice came through the bars, professional concern sharpening her tone. "Are you okay?"

  Evan spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and pushed himself upright. The cell swam around him before his vision steadied. He turned to face the guards, both of them standing alert near the door, their expressions mixing worry with uncertainty.

  "I need to speak to Brennik." His voice came out raw, scraped by the vomiting. "And Sasha. Right now. It's urgent."

  32

  Halsey was already moving, her hand going to the comms device on her belt. "Adam, this is Halsey. Marshall's back. He's asking for Brennik and Sasha. Says it's urgent."

  "Copy that." Adam's voice came through, clipped and professional. "I'll get them there as soon as possible. Is he injured?"

  Halsey glanced through the bars at Evan, who had managed to flush the toilet and get himself upright. He was leaning against the wall beside the toilet. "Doesn't look like it. But something happened."

  "Understood. Sit tight."

  The comm went silent. Halsey returned to her position near the door, her expression carrying the careful neutrality of someone who knew better than to ask questions above her clearance level. Sikes maintained his post on the opposite side, equally professional.

  Evan moved to the sink and ran cold water over his hands, splashing some on his face. The chill helped clear the fog from his thoughts, though his stomach still felt like it was trying to climb out through his throat. He rinsed his mouth, spat, and repeated the process until the taste of bile faded to something manageable.

  It was still hard to believe that one minute he was fighting for his life, desperately trying to escape two fleets in a galaxy a billion light-years away, and the next he was standing in an underground prison cell washing his mouth out. No matter how long he might possess the effigy, he didn't think he would ever get used to it.

  The effigy sat on the cot where he'd dropped it. That innocent-looking toy, with its white hull and orange bands, its hidden switch that connected him to a starship hidden in the ruins of a dead civilization. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, studying the details he'd memorized weeks ago.

  He'd found the atmospheric control by accident, desperate and on his way to ploughing into the planet, his finger stabbing at symbols he didn't understand. Pure luck had saved him. But luck wouldn't be enough next time. He needed options. Real options, not desperate improvisation.

  Footsteps echoed from the tunnel. Quick, purposeful, the sound of someone moving with urgency but not panic. Evan looked up as Sasha Tal emerged into the prison area, her sharp features arranged in an expression of concern.

  "Evan." She crossed to the bars, her eyes moving over him with clinical assessment. "Are you okay? Adam said you requested me."

  "I need help with symbols." Evan moved closer to the bars. "Something happened up there. I made it to the planet, but the Möbius was waiting for me. A Solmarch fleet showed up too. There was a battle. I got Ascendant down to the surface, but now it's stuck there."

  Sasha's expression shifted, processing the implications. "Stuck how?"

  "Hidden. I found a place to land, inside a ruined building. But Sarxon's in orbit. She knows it's down there somewhere. The ship's systems..." He shook his head. "I found the atmospheric flight controls by accident. Nearly killed myself in the process. There has to be more. Other systems I haven't discovered yet."

  "What kind of systems?"

  Evan thought about the shows Beth used to love. The sci-fi series she'd watched growing up and had always tried to get him to watch with her. Star Trek. Battlestar Galactica. Babylon 5. Stargate SG-1. Ships with capabilities that went beyond simple propulsion and weapons.

  "Cloaking," he said. "Some kind of stealth system. If the Ascendant has one, I could use it to slip past Sarxon's sensors, get off the planet before she even knows I'm moving. Or at the very least stay more hidden on the planet."

  Sasha's brow furrowed. "It's possible. The Makers certainly had the level of technology to do something like that." She paused, thinking. "The symbol for stealth or invisibility...it would likely incorporate elements suggesting absence or negation. A circle with a break in it, maybe. Or parallel lines that fade or dissolve at the ends."

  "What about the atmospheric flight controls I found?" Evan described the symbol he'd pressed, the horizontal bar with angled lines branching from either end. "It looked like wings. Made sense once I figured out what it did."

  "That's consistent with Maker design philosophy. They preferred symbols that visually represented function when possible." Sasha's eyes grew distant, her mind clearly working through possibilities. "If the ship has other modes, the symbols would follow similar logic. A ground-travel mode might show a horizontal line with downward-pointing elements. Something submarine-capable would incorporate wave patterns or depth indicators."

  "What about power management? I burned through half my reserves getting to the surface. If there's a way to reduce consumption, extend what I have left..."

  "Conservation modes would likely use symbols suggesting containment or compression. A circle within a circle, perhaps. Or converging lines that suggest reduction."

  Evan absorbed the information, trying to commit it to memory. The problem was obvious—Sasha was guessing. Educated guessing, based on years of studying Maker artifacts, but still guessing.

  "The Makers invented new symbols constantly," she said, reading his expression. "They weren't working from a single unified language. Each faction developed its own variations, its own shorthand. The Ascendant was built by the Tenth Maker, someone who operated outside the boundaries of the others. There's no guarantee his symbolic conventions match anything we've studied."

  "Great." Evan ran a hand through his hair. "So I'm basically looking for needles in a haystack, except I don't know what the needles look like."

  "You know more than you think. The atmospheric flight symbol made sense to you once you understood what it did. The same logic should apply to other systems. Look for symbols near the helm controls that seem related to movement or concealment. The Makers may have been creative, but they weren't random."

  More footsteps came down the tunnel. Heavier this time, accompanied by the softer tread of someone following closely behind.

  Brennik Tal emerged into the prison area, his bald head gleaming under the overhead lights, his sharp eyes immediately finding Evan through the bars. Adam followed a step behind, carrying a tray with a water bottle and what looked like a sandwich.

  "Mr. Marshall." Brennik moved to stand beside his granddaughter, his expression grave. "What happened?"

  Evan told him about the Möbius waiting for him. The Solmarch fleet's unexpected arrival. The battle that erupted between them. His desperate dive into the atmosphere, the near-crash, the dogfight with starfighters from both sides. Finding the ruined city and hiding the Ascendant inside a hollow tower.

  Brennik listened without interruption, his face growing more serious with each detail.

  "Sarxon's in orbit," Evan concluded. "She can't follow me to the surface, but she knows I'm down there. She'll send search parties eventually. Ground forces. I need to get Ascendant off that planet before they find it, but I have no idea where to go. I don't know the territory, I don't know who might be friendly, and I can barely read the ship's controls."

  "The Null Guard has operatives throughout Oridian," Brennik said slowly. "If you could contact them, they could provide assistance. Safe locations. Allies who might be able to help."

  "How? The ship has communications systems, but I don't know how to use them. And even if I figured it out, I wouldn't know who to call or what to say."

  "I can give you encryption keys," Brennik said. "Frequencies our people in Oridian monitor. If you can access the Ascendant's communications array, you can send a message they'll recognize as coming from an ally."

  "What kind of message?"

  "Something simple. A coded distress call in Oridian Standard, using phrases our operatives are trained to respond to." Brennik's expression grew thoughtful. "I can teach you the words. It won't be a conversation—you don't have time to learn the language properly—but it would be enough to establish contact. To let them know you need help."

  Adam stepped forward, extending the tray through the bars. "Figured you might need this."

  Evan took the tray. The sandwich was simple—turkey, cheese, lettuce on wheat bread—but the sight of it reminded him how long it had been since he'd eaten anything. His stomach, still unsettled from the vomiting, protested at the thought of food.

  He set the sandwich aside and grabbed the water bottle instead, twisting off the cap and downing half in long, desperate gulps. The cold liquid helped settle his stomach, washing away the last traces of bile.

  "The communications symbols," he said, lowering the bottle. "Sasha, what would those look like?"

  She considered the question. "Communications would be represented by symbols suggesting connection or transmission. Radiating lines, perhaps. Or interlocking patterns that suggest linking between separate points." She paused. "The encryption interface would be more complex. You'd need to input specific frequency codes, which means finding a keypad or input system. Look for grids of smaller symbols, organized in a pattern that allows for combinations. I can teach you the numerics that align with zero through nine."

  "And the message itself?"

  "I'll teach you phonetically," Brennik said. "The exact sounds, the rhythm of the words. You won't understand what you're saying, but if you pronounce it correctly, our people will understand you. The important thing is that the message has to be workable one-way. You can't respond to them." He paused to consider.

  Evan forced himself to take a bite of the sandwich. His stomach threatened rebellion, but he chewed and swallowed anyway. He needed the energy. The fuel for whatever came next.