But the Greenshirt shifts his weight and pins Lachlan’s arm. Oh, great Earth, there is so much blood! They’re slipping in it as they struggle, their boots trying to get a grip on the slick floor as they grapple for position. Lachlan rolls the Greenshirt, and for a moment he’s on top. Then the Greenshirt reaches up and tears at Lachlan’s bullet wound with clawed fingers. Lachlan’s face drains white, and I think he’s going to pass out as the Greenshirt flips him, punches him in the face, and finally remembers his rifle.

He’s straddling Lachlan, a knee on either side keeping him pinned down. The Greenshirt takes his time now. He’s that confident he’s won. Easily, as if there’s nothing at all urgent about the situation, he unslings his rifle and points it at Lachlan’s face.

“Second child, huh?” The Greenshirt uses the rifle muzzle to turn Lachlan’s face so he can examine his eyes. The length of the weapon makes for an awkward angle, and the Greenshirt has to lean back to give himself room to maneuver the weapon. “Do you know what they’re going to do to you at the Center?” He laughs, an ugly sound. “I’d be doing you a favor to shoot you now.” He presses the barrel to Lachlan’s forehead, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Lachlan, please do something!

Then my eyes fly open. Why am I waiting for Lachlan to act?

The Greenshirt doesn’t know I’m here. And right beside me, scattered when Lachlan hauled me to the ground as bullets started flying, is a scalpel. The blade is small, but deadly sharp.

The Greenshirt is talking, loudly, gloating about the horrors that await Lachlan. What he’s saying turns my stomach . . . but strengthens my resolution. Silently, I slide my feet under me, picking up the scalpel. It feels so slender in my grasp, too delicate for violence.

But sharp enough for the threat of violence.

The Greenshirt, so intent on his taunts, doesn’t hear me as I creep up behind him and lay the edge of the scalpel against the side of his throat. I have my threat all ready: Drop your weapon, stand up slowly, or I’ll open your veins. We’ll tie him up. We’ll escape.

But the second my blade touches his throat, Lachlan bucks upward, and the scalpel slides in without resistance, as if the Greenshirt’s skin is the finest silk.

I pull away—throw myself backward—but it is too late. A gush of blood sprays from his throat, pulsing in time to his heartbeat. As Lachlan grips the rifle and wrestles it away, the Greenshirt tuns to me with a look of surprise that breaks my heart. His eyes are big, he looks like he’s about to say something . . . then he slumps, almost gracefully. The blood pulses more slowly now from his slashed throat, pooling in a crimson lake around his body. Once more. And then both the Greenshirt and his flowing blood are still.

Lachlan twists out from under him and stands unsteadily. I can’t take my eyes off the dead Greenshirt. I did that. I ended a life . . .

There isn’t even blood on my hands.

Lachlan is tugging on my arm. “Come on, we have to go.”

I can’t move.

“We need to get out of here, get you someplace safe.” He drapes one of my arms over his shoulder and hauls me bodily toward the door. It should be the other way around. I should be supporting him. My legs don’t seem to be working right. My feet drag.

“I can’t . . .” I begin. But I know I have to.

The world begins to blur, the edges dissolving. Images like the ones I saw when I first regained consciousness threaten to barge into my sight, or my mind. Figures in white coats. A monitor tracking someone’s pulse and other vital signs. And, wonderfully, in a vision I don’t want to fight, a forest so real I can smell the damp Earth.

But I push it all back, and I see Flame in the doorway, beckoning. Lachlan trains the rifle, liberated from the Greenshirt, on her, but she ignores it. “Thanks a whole bikking lot!” she snaps. “There I was, all set to upgrade Serpentine and relocate to a posh ring, and now—this!” She squints at me, at my eyes. “You shouldn’t be standing.”

“Not much choice,” Lachlan says between clenched teeth. “Where were you?”

“Had to do an emergency override of my securitybots’ safety protocols. Thought a little judicious lethality might be called for here. My bots took care of the other one. Bikk bikk bikk!” She rubs her forehead and paces. “Can I come up with any kind of story to cover this up? I can melt the bodies, of course. We get rid of lots of unwanted bio bits here.” She keeps up a monologue as she strides, kinetic and intense, and I have the strangest feeling that despite all her cursing, this disaster is no more than a setback. She looks up, and there’s the strangest little smile on her lips.

“Do you kids have a place to go?”

Lachlan nods. “And you?”

“Think I’ve spent my life on the black market fringe without having a bolt-hole or two? But you go on. I’ve got this covered.” She frowns down at the dead Greenshirt. “I think.” Then she shrugs, and shakes her finger at Lachlan, other troubles apparently forgotten. I’m realizing she may be slightly insane. “You get her someplace she can rest, for at least a day. She needs to be lying down so the pressure doesn’t build up behind her eyes. Don’t want to go pop, do we? And her neural network will be confused for a while. After all, you’re linked—more or less—into the EcoPan now.”

I blink, my eyes burning. So many implications.

“I linked you with the identity your friend provided, instead of the one your mother had arranged. This boy has some connections!” She sounds impressed. “The identity your mother set up for you was compromised, I’m sure, since they were on to you. But this guy has the specs of another identity all set up.” She gives him a significant look. “Almost as if he’s planned all this for a long, long time. Had to fiddle with the details. Gender, for example. But now EcoPan will officially recognize you as Yarrow. It will take a while to gel, so there will be glitches for a few months. Some bots might not be able to get a read on you. But just to be safe, don’t go anywhere you don’t want the EcoPan knowing about.”

I gasp. I can’t go back to the Underground? Where else can I go? I can’t go home. I feel panic rising. I’m alone, homeless, adrift.

Then, like the strange visions, but even clearer, I seem to see a flash of soft lilac before my eyes.

“Lark,” I say decisively. “Lark will take me in.”