I spared a thought for the other kids. Had they escaped to Mars City safely? I particularly worried about Anya, the youngest member of the group. But Imani had taken charge of her, and if there was anyone I trusted to keep her safe, it was Imani. She had lost her little sister, who was about Anya’s age. I knew she would protect Anya with her life. I just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

We didn’t have to wait long after they realized we weren’t going to drop any more information. Commander Yang returned in the red jacket and black pants favored by Mars Mining, their logo emblazoned on her left breast pocket. Like everything on Mars, her uniform had seen better days, but she wore it with pride. Three other guards in similar uniforms entered behind her. “Let’s get you a little more comfortable,” Yang said, taking one of the chairs. She nodded and one of the guards approached, recuffing our hands in front of us. The other two stood by the locked door, weapons trained, alert for any sign of movement, especially when they uncuffed Cage. They must have taken the time to look up our files.

“Can I get you anything?” Yang asked as the three of us settled into the chairs across from her and the guards took positions by the door.

“Yeah,” said Cage. “Proof you destroyed that ship.”

Her lips quirked into a thin smile. “I meant more like a glass of water. This might be a long conversation.”

“We don’t need anything,” I said. “And you don’t have time for a long conversation.”

Yang examined us thoughtfully, then turned to Rune. “You’re very quiet.”

Rune shrugged. “If you won’t listen to them, you’re not going to listen to me.”

“All right.” Yang slid a security stick onto the table between us and set it to record. “Tell me everything.”

There was no point arguing with corporate policies. She wasn’t going to take any action without knowing the facts, and part of me understood corporations well enough not to blame her. As quickly as I could, with the occasional input from Cage, I told her what had happened on Sanctuary. As I described the events, my voice echoed back at me as if through a tunnel, hollow and disconnected. Everything made sense: the distress signal, Rita’s absence, the prison break, the alien attack. But the words seemed devoid of life. Even as I recounted how the aliens tore through the station’s hull like paper, even as I listed the dozens, the hundreds of dead, none of the fear and terror and urgency came through. It sounded like I was composing a story for a particularly boring English assignment.