But the mag-rifles . . .

Amory mentioned them when talking about compasses. Our Old World compasses go haywire during silent storms: needles spinning, never finding north. But once the storm is over, they come back to their senses. I’m hoping the mag-rifles, for whatever reason, are the same: operable most days, useless during the storms.

I take one from a compartment and pass it to Asher.

“They’re lighter than the modified rifles,” he says. “Easier to load, too. Watch.” He takes a dull gray box from a shelf above and feeds it into a slot where the rifle’s barrel meets the grip. I take it that he figured all this out when he was doing inventory with Reed. “No more shoving bullets in with a rod, no more lighting powder. Just clip in”—he touches the gray box—“and squeeze the trigger. Why the hell did Amory leave all these behind?”

“The silent storms must have been really frequent. He mentioned something about the sun and an active period, whatever that means. If storms hit every few days back then, these would be completely useless.”

“But they’re not now?”

“They shouldn’t be. Not till the storm gets here.”

“So why do you want to give these to the General?” Asher asks, struggling to keep up.

“Come on.”

I grab the mag-rifle from him and run back the way we came. Once we’re out of the bunker again, perched atop the rubble, I aim the weapon at the horizon. The green-blue warning ribbons are twisting still, and I point the barrel at them, as though shooting them can banish the storm that’s yet to hit.

I’ve never fired a rifle—not the modified and popular Old World rifle and certainly not this fancy tech in my hands—but Asher made it sound easy.

I squeeze the trigger, and the blast of the gun is nearly as bad as the way it punches into my shoulder. My ears ring. I rub near my collarbone, knowing I’ll have a bruise by morning.

I take aim again, holding the weapon more firmly this time, bracing for the punch.

“It works, genius,” Asher says after another deafening blast.

I look at the dancing aurora. “But in a few more hours, they won’t work. At least that’s what I’m hoping to prove.”

“And then what?”

“Then I can bring these weapons to Bedrock. I can tell the General that I figured out how to read my map. I’ll tell him the truth: there is no Verdant, just a bunker filled with Old World tech. He’ll test the rifles, see that they work. I won’t go to him until the weather is clear. I’ll tell him he can have all the weapons if he lets my pack go.”