Teorin swooped toward a clearing. The outpost’s tower rose half a mile to the east, poking through the trees. There was probably a designated landing area, but after the ambush in Jarangua, he wasn’t about to waltz in through the front.

  He needed control over his approach. Unfortunately, this clearing was barely big enough to land in.

  And he was running on fumes.

  The wrongness in his limbs, the faint sense of thinness, like his muscles had lost a layer, told him everything he needed to know. His pressure reserves were dangerously low. Not enough for a fight now.

  As he descended, he absorbed what little ambient air pressure he could, pulling at the lingering force around him to slow his fall. At the same time, he redirected the stored pressure inward, reinforcing his legs and core to brace for impact. His suit’s pressure panels kicked in, distributing the external force as efficiently as possible.

  He was so focused on managing his descent—calculating pulses, redirecting force—that he didn’t see the root. His foot caught. The ground rushed up as instinct kicked in. He pulsed, redirecting just enough force to keep from face-planting outright.

  He landed in a low plank position, arms catching him inches from the dirt. He groaned. Stupid. He should have seen that. Fortunately, the wings hadn’t hit the ground. No major damage, just his pride. But if someone had been waiting for him, that mistake could have cost him everything.

  Shifting onto one hand, he reached back and pulled the handle to retract his wings. His arm ached, trembling, weaker than it should be. The wings responded sluggishly but seemed functional. He’d have to inspect them later. Finally, they retracted fully.

  Teorin let himself collapse and rolled onto his back. He stared at the sky, breath slowing, exhaustion sinking in.

  A dull tug pulled beneath his ribs—a tight, hollow ache in his diaphragm. Not good. It meant he was burning through his emergency reserves: pressure stored in the compressible fluid of his pressure sac. The organ, fused with his diaphragm, regulated pressure throughout his body.

  No more fights or flights. Not until he got pressure because sac activation like this meant looming depletion. Depletion meant pain, and if it went too far, death.

  He closed his eyes tuning into a sense somewhere between touch and hearing—feeling air pressure the way others might feel warmth or sound. It wasn’t wind he needed; it was what wind carried. Compression. Impact. The kind of force that built behind storms or doors about to blow. He knew the feeling of thick air, like a taut drumskin just waiting to be tapped. This? This felt like trying to drink fog.

  If he concentrated long enough, he might pull something in, but it was just as likely to give him a headache as it was to yield any meaningful pressure.

  He pulled out his Mechanical Pressure Siphon (MPS), a compact, spring-loaded device lined with pressure channels. It had been quietly siphoning ambient air pressure all day, storing it in its compression chambers.

  With a twist, he activated it. A weight pressed against his skin, and he let it seep in—slow, steady. Like a breath. He exhaled and leaned back, letting the MPS do its job. Five minutes. Then he’d move.

  Not that he wanted to. Getting up meant another hike through the forest. To go risk his life.

  Again.

  He should be dead. Circa had every chance to kill him. If she’d used her affinity, she would have won that fight. But she didn’t. That unsettled him more than anything.

  And there were other problems. Like the outpost.

  Teorin had already decided mid-flight: he was probably walking into a trap. He just didn’t know what kind. Maybe he could search for clues elsewhere before heading in. Or turn back.

  Was the drive Jeron wanted really worth his life? If this had been anything else, the answer was a definite no. But Trevor Rafinin had disappeared, and he’d only wanted the drive found if that happened.

  What did that mean? Did Trevor know something? Whatever was on that drive, people were willing to kill for it. Teorin hadn’t known Trevor well, but if the drive had anything to do with his disappearance…

  His own father had vanished years ago. It was stupid to think the cases were linked, but his father had been off-grid too, doing important research for Novem. What if that wasn’t a coincidence?

  If there was even a chance this drive had answers, Teorin wanted them. Unfortunately, that meant walking straight into another potential ambush.

  Sighing, he stood. Twisting the MPS shut, he tucked it away, where it would continue siphoning pressure. The pressure wasn’t much, but it at least it felt less like his muscles were wearing away.

  He repacked the two hanging bags into the duffel and started into the woods. The trees were mostly deciduous this far south, not too dense. Yet something about them felt off, eerie.

  Probably because he kept expecting someone to be hiding behind them.

  Before long, the stone tower crowning the outpost, probably an observatory, came into view again. Teorin prowled forward through the underbrush until the ground floor, built from dark, sealed wood, emerged between the trees. He crouched, wincing as the motion aggravated a fresh bruise, and waited, scanning for movement.

  The outpost wasn’t particularly large. The trees had been cleared in front to create a runway for Pulsers, maybe even for small planes. Off to the side, a shed sat at the clearing’s edge, but otherwise, it was just grass, stone, and a small garden.

  Not a soul in sight. That didn’t mean no one was there. But waiting wouldn’t improve his odds.

  Teorin jogged to the entrance, trying—and failing—to keep an eye on every direction. He hated doing this sort of thing with no one to watch his back.

  But no one emerged from the trees. No one stepped out of the shed.

  He stopped in front of the door and fished out the key. Sliding it into the lock, he twisted: nothing. It didn’t turn. Frowning, he jiggled it more desperately. If he’d almost died for a key that didn’t even work…

  A click. The key turned.

  Teorin exhaled in relief, pulled it free, and twisted the knob. The door swung open, revealing a narrow entryway lined with shelves, jam-packed with books and equipment. So much for a simple search.

  He shut the door, throwing the deadbolt. It wouldn’t stop a Heatsinger, but it’d slow them down.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  A curtained window illuminated the next room, a clutter of scattered papers. The floor was mostly clear, but the desk and what might have been a couch were covered in documents and, oddly, blankets. Either Trevor was messy, or someone had already been here.

  Regardless, the drive wouldn’t be in this part of the outpost. It would be in the burstproof section.

  Teorin turned back into the hall. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for—a large metal door about halfway down, just past what looked like the bedroom and bathroom. He flipped up the covered pad protecting the hand scanner embedded in the frame.

  “Moment of truth,” he muttered and pressed his palm to the scanner.

  If his hand wasn’t in the system, this was all for nothing. With his busted comm band and Jarangua full of Heatsingers, getting an override code would be near impossible.

  A beep. The metal door slid open.

  Inside, the room was just large enough for a desk and some bookshelves of equipment. Fewer papers littered the surfaces here, but they weren’t absent. At least that confirmed Trevor was messy.

  On the far side of the room, another burstdoor led downward. If this outpost was laid out like the others, it likely led up to the tower. To the right stood a standard door. Teorin pulled it open, revealing a storage space filled with electronics—scanners, an old computer console, even a virtual exercise box.

  And there, against the far wall, a Pressure Recharge Station. An old model, but functional.

  Teorin let out a breath. Finally. He was starting to feel pressure hunger clawing at his insides.

  He stepped forward and pressed his hand against the panel. The unit pulsed faintly, syncing with his reserves, and moments later, fresh pressure energy seeped back into his system. Relief came first—pressure flooding tired limbs, steadying his breath, smoothing the ache in his diaphragm. It was clean, controlled, efficient—like drinking purified water when what he really wanted was the crisp bite of a mountain stream.

  He chuckled to himself. Halfway to depletion, and I’m critiquing the taste?

  Next, he’d be turning into one of those pressure connoisseurs, the kind who claimed they only recharged in wild thermals because it “tasted better.” Ridiculous.

  Artificial or not, a recharge was a recharge. The ache loosened. His limbs felt solid again, grounded. The hunger faded, though the warning still lingered in his nerves.

  He kept his hand on the panel, and the feeling shifted. More pressure. A bloated, restless fullness that begged for release filled him. His sac compressed the excess, but not fast enough. Pressure buzzed under his skin, aching for an outlet. He grit his teeth and pulled his hand away before he hit sloshing discomfort.

  He waited. Five seconds—ten—as his body reset, pressure siphoning away into the compressible fluid of his sac. Finally, he felt settled again. Pressure was a Pulser’s constant battle. Use too much, and his body would make him pay. It always did.

  As the last traces of energy settled, he scanned the room one last time. No keypad in sight. If the drive was in a locked closet, it had to be in the basement.

  As he jogged down the stairs, the lights flickered on automatically. The basement was larger than expected, a single open space divided by a glass partition. He'd been in enough Novem sites to recognize the layout: tower for comms, main floor for living space, basement for lab work.

  Unlike the rest of the outpost, this area was mostly empty, just a waist-high column near the wall and, somehow, a clutter-free table.

  Behind the glass, a chemistry lab: cabinets lined with chemicals, counters cluttered with lab equipment, and test tubes scattered with dirt and plant samples. Trevor must have been testing rock composition.

  A scorch mark blackened one wall. What in cascades had Trevor been doing down here?

  Teorin scanned the empty section where he stood. A metal doorway was set into the wall with a keypad beside it. He entered the code Jeron had given him. The door slid open, revealing a closet barely three feet deep, shelves lining the upper half.

  A backpack. A filing cabinet. A briefcase.

  Teorin slid open a drawer. Hanging folders bulged with pages—some thick as books, others barely ten sheets. This was going to take a while if he had to scan them all.

  He pulled the backpack out. Inside were pencils, rulers, and a few pages scrawled with alien inscriptions. Maybe the cave etchings Korrin had mentioned. A leather-bound journal rested at the bottom, Jace Rafinin imprinted on the cover.

  The name was familiar, but Teorin couldn’t place it. He thumbed through the journal until a couple of photos slipped from between the pages.

  Trevor. It had been a while since Teorin had seen him. Just quick sightings here and there recently. He’d been what—seven?—when they’d last really interacted? When Trevor had been working with his dad for the summer, and Isi had spent half the summer with them.

  Then he found a more recent photo. Trevor stood on a beach, older, smiling, his arm wrapped around a girl.

  A girl Teorin knew. Isi Rafinin da Silva. His traitor of a brother’s girlfriend.

  Bursts. He’d known Trevor and Isi were related, but he didn’t think they were still close. Not since she’d gone full da Silva. But this? This was recent. He flipped the photo over. Scribbled on the back was a note:

  For my favorite uncle. Thanks for the vacation.

  And a date. A year ago.

  Cascades! He’d thought they were estranged. He’d sworn Novem’s files said they were now. That Novem had been keeping tabs on that. How had Jeron not known?

  Trevor wasn’t some estranged relative. Isi had a personal stake in his disappearance. And Marcus did too.

  Teorin’s stomach twisted. He… wasn’t ready to see his brother. Maybe he never would be.

  He shoved the thought aside and turned back to the journal. Isi was Trevor’s niece. And Jace… that’s why the name was familiar. Jace was Trevor’s brother. Isi’s father. Teorin barely remembered him. Just that he’d died years ago in some kind of accident.

  At least, that’s what everyone had said. Now, with Trevor missing, it seemed like more than a coincidence.

  The journal was small. If he had room, he’d bring it. But right now, he had bigger priorities.

  Finally, Teorin pulled out the briefcase. If the drive wasn’t in here, he had no idea where to look. He flipped it open, and there it was. A small, red pocket-sized drive. Just like Jeron said. One side bore the image of an eagle in flight. The other, a simpler engraving, a name: W.L. Rafinin.

  Maybe William-something Rafinin, the captain of the Atalanta, the ship that brought his ancestors here. Teorin didn’t remember the Captain's middle name.

  That would mean the drive had been in the family for over two centuries.

  The only other item in the briefcase was a spiral notebook: Trevor’s notes. Definitely worth taking. Teorin slipped the drive into one of his larger pockets and stuffed the notes in his bag. He still had to scan the pages in the filing cabinet, but maybe Trevor had already digitized some of them.

  He walked over to the waist-high pillar that housed the console station. Running a hand across the top, he activated the system. The surface lit up along with the wall in front of him. Fancy setup.

  He typed in the same code he’d used for the closet. The image shifted, revealing a list of files and programs.

  Progress.

  He tapped a folder. Text filled the wall in front of him. He tapped another. A computerized voice responded: “Password, please.”

  “Leaves fall in unexpected ways,” Teorin tried. It was a common Novem passcode.

  “I’m sorry. That’s incorrect.”

  Well, he hadn’t really expected it to work.

  Since Trevor had been the only one here, this functioned as his personal console. Teorin had no idea what his password would be. Worse, it could be set to voice recognition. That meant even if he guessed the words, he’d still need to match Trevor’s voice.

  “Would you like to try again?” the computer prompted.

  “No.” Not worth the time.

  Instead, he loaded his own memory drive into the console and copied every accessible file. Almost everything downloaded, including some of the locked files. Must have Novem tags. The rest had to be marked for Trevor’s personal use.

  After the computer files, Teorin worked on scanning the pages from the filing cabinet. He didn’t have time to read them all, but as he scanned, he skimmed. It quickly became clear he could only read some of the documents. Many were in Portilian, Aralin’s other common language, while others used an entirely alien script.

  Trevor had been studying all sorts of things: one page detailed local tree species, while another sketched out starships. The connections were unclear. Maybe the untranslated pages would fill in the gaps, but whatever the case, Trevor had deemed them important enough to lock away.

  More loose pages still littered the room. Trevor had been a prolific note-taker, and Novem would have to send someone else to sort through it all. Teorin didn’t have time. The drive and closet files were his priority. Now, he needed to get out. Korrin had likely searched the bedroom already. The key would have gotten her into the outpost, but not past the burstdoor.

  One last check. A final, quick sweep of the tower for anything obvious, then he was gone.

  He climbed back to the main floor. No clues. Just more papers, more equipment. No traps. Yet.

  That didn’t mean someone wasn’t waiting. They could be watching, waiting for him to collect what they wanted before making a move. Leaving might be the most dangerous part of this whole expedition. Maybe if he left straight from the tower, he’d have a better shot. Less ground to cover. Fewer blind spots.

  And less time for someone to stop him.