Her November ghost is waiting for her when she reaches the surface. It lights the way for her as she climbs back into the boat and stands there, dripping, strands of stardust in her hair. She can’t wait any longer, words tumbling out of her.

Where have you been?

The November ghost is no more than a whisper, but when the girl closes her eyes, she can hear it:

Looking for you.

I’M SCRAMBLING, BULLETS PINGING OFF the ladder around me, when suddenly Jubilee’s not below me anymore. I nearly lose my grip, grabbing for a rung as I twist to see where she’s gone, fear singing through me.

She’s on the ground. Oh God, she’s on the ground. And even in the dark, even in the mud, I can see she’s been hit, blood flowering out across her arm.

“Jubilee!” My scream is hoarse, barely audible even to me over the gunfire. My muscles start moving, sending me sliding and stumbling back down the ladder; I can’t see anything other than her body.

Then she lifts her head, and my heart nearly gives out with relief. She starts to move, getting her left elbow underneath her, then falling back into the mud once more. It takes me a long moment to even realize her mouth is moving, and I can’t hear what she says as she stares up at me, but I can read the word on her lips. Go.

I hang from the framework, helpless—hope above me, my heart on the ground below. Then she screams at me again, and this time I can hear her shout. “GO!” I can see what the effort costs her.

So I do the only thing I can. I force my arms and legs to move against the frantic orders my heart wants to issue, and I scramble up, grabbing each handhold and hauling, muddy feet sliding off rungs and finding new purchase. There’s a window at the top—it serves as a lookout tower too, perhaps—and I turn my face away and smash my fist against the pane. It shatters, and I smash out the pieces, making a hole I can scramble through, landing in a muddy heap on the floor of the empty tower.

I don’t waste a second, pushing up to my knees, trying to keep my head below the line of the windows. I’m surrounded by a bewildering array of broadcast equipment, a thousand times more complex than the simple radio gear we use in the caves. And yet it’s not completely alien. Something about the controls is familiar.

I close my eyes, trying to ignore the tug of my heart back down to where Jubilee lies, trying to tune out the sound below and send my focus back. Back before the last planetary review, the last rebellion, back to a time when home meant a roof, a bed of my own. I can’t remember my mother’s face, but I can see her hands still, curled around a transmitter. They took away hypernet communications technology during the rebellion, but now I watch the memory unfold, kneeling on the floor of the tower. I see her hand holding the transmitter, her fingers reaching across to depress a button so the display leaped to life. And I remember.

I grab the receiver, fingers running over the buttons until I find the sequence I need to transmit my broadcast to the galaxy. There’s a row of switches labeled EXTERIOR LIGHTS, and I flip them, the courtyard suddenly dazzlingly bright—the figures below freeze, half blinded, stumbling and ducking for cover. The shooting starts to die away.

Next to the light switches are those for the loudspeakers, and I flip those too. The speakers above me awaken with a crackle. Now I’m transmitting to my people and Jubilee’s in the compound below, as well as to every corner of the galaxy.

I hold down the button on the side of the transmitter and start to speak. “My name is Flynn Cormac.”

Below, I see a couple of heads snap up at the sound of my voice, or maybe at my name—I can’t tell whether the silhouettes are soldiers or Fianna. “This is a transmission for the people of Avon, and for all those beyond Avon who can hear me. I’m the third generation of my family from this planet. We’ve been locked in conflict for years now. Fighting for the right to be heard, fighting for the right to live, just because our planet hasn’t passed review yet. And the soldiers here have been fighting too, for order, for peace. Terrible things have happened to all of us. Good men and women have died, and the people of Avon have been driven to turn on each other.” I’m forced to stop, swallowing so hard the lump in my throat hurts, as I think of Fergal’s tiny body and unseeing eyes, and of the madness and grief that drove McBride to kill him. “Desperation has led my own people to the murder of innocents because they can no longer imagine a future without war.”

There are so many things I want to say—I want to talk about the whispers, the way LaRoux isolated them, tortured them, forced them to evolve into individuals they were never meant to be, so they could never go back. I wish I knew how to share their grief with the galaxy, but I don’t know how much time I have. “I’m broadcasting from a secret facility LaRoux Industries has had here for years. LaRoux himself has been keeping beings on Avon, creatures completely different from us. Whispers from another universe with the power to control thoughts. He’s used them to slow down our terraforming, to block our transmissions so no one could hear us calling for help. Until LaRoux is brought to justice, we’re not safe. None of us are.”

I see figures huddled wherever there’s shelter, ready to resume fighting in an instant—but for now, they listen. I clear my throat, force my voice to sound strong.

“We need you to watch us. We need you to ask about us, and care about us, and remember your colonies were once young too. We need your protection, and we need you to know that if anything happens to Avon, it was LaRoux, not an accident. Don’t let him hide the evidence of what he’s done. We’re asking you and trusting you to bear witness for us.” I suck in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Thank you. Message ends.”