Some part of Gyre’s mind, calmly judging distances and speeds, told him he was right, that neither of them would make it. Yora grabbed his hand and yanked him to his feet, the rock-thing only paces behind. The ground shook as he got his legs under him and started to run, the creature now moving faster than a galloping warbird, no chance—

A blaster cracked, the white-hot bolt ripping past Gyre’s shoulder. Kit stood square in the corridor, weapon held cool and steady in both hands. Gyre waited for the blue field to intercept the shot, as it had with Ibb’s, but the bolt was poorly aimed and slammed into the ceiling. It detonated with a roar, and chunks of rock cascaded downward.

Not poorly aimed at all. The creature staggered under the rain of stone, its momentum checked.

“Fucking run!” Kit shouted. She fired again, her aim tracking along the ceiling, bringing the ancient tunnel down on the thing’s head. Gyre put his head down and ran, Yora pounding along at his side. As they passed Kit, she holstered the blaster and joined them, skidding around the corner at the T-junction.

“Come on, come on!” Ibb shouted, already outside the hidden door. He had one hand on the code-key.

Gyre gritted his teeth, sweat stinging his eye, and ran with everything he had. The three of them passed through the doorway as the rock-creature, dust-covered but intact, made it to the corner. As soon as they were clear, Ibb ripped the code-key from the door, which obligingly slid quietly shut and sealed with a final-sounding hiss. A moment later, the thump of footsteps from the other side came to an abrupt halt, and there was silence, aside from their labored breathing and the occasional crash of falling rock.

Kit let out a whoop of triumph, brandishing her prize. Ibb fixed her with a poisonous glare. He’d lost his hat, and without it he seemed smaller. Yora had tossed her spear aside, fighting for breath, face dark with anger. Kit glanced between them, caught Gyre’s eye, and shrugged.

*

Sitting on the table in their meeting room, the black rod that Kit called the destabilizer didn’t seem like it was worth the effort. Sarah examined the thing with a practiced eye, running her hands over the random patterns of silver wire that shimmered beneath its surface. Nevin, the thief, was nervously sketching on a long roll of thin paper. Yora herself sat several paces back from the table, jaw tight.

Ibb, for his part, had replaced his hat and regained some of his aplomb. He sat, most of his face hidden, at the end of the table that was farthest from Kit. The look he threw Gyre when he came in was impossible to read.