Victoria half-laughs. “Don’t even start.”

She steps forward and an Official opens the transport’s hatch for us.

“Load up.”

We board the transport, and a long hiss stirs the air when the hatch seals us inside. At the other end of a thin corridor is an open door, through which we find a passenger chamber similar to the one where the girl threw up on the day we flew Molters. Other crewmembers are already strapped in and ready to go.

Two holograms shimmer on the front walls. One displays video feeds from outside the transport, and the other displays the altitude, oxygen levels, air pressure, and velocity. A short tube with a head-sized opening sticks up from the floor next to each seat in the chamber, and cool air spills out of vents built into the ceiling.

“Stay secure and keep your back straight,” Victoria instructs.

“And don’t close your eyes,” Officer Remmit adds. “You don’t want to miss the view.”

Glacia and I sit in a row with three other officers. I strap an elastic band over my waist and align the overhead brace with my shoulders and chest. Officer Remmit checks that we are properly secured, and then he and Victoria disappear through another gate. It isn’t long before the lights dim and a countdown appears on the screens. A few of the officers who were chatting and laughing behind us stop their conversations.

The countdown reaches thirty seconds. Bumps raise the hair on my arms. My whole body is tense. My hands grip the restraint bars too tight, and chills keep tingling my spine.

A dull roar hums from outside the walls: the thrusters. The transport sways when the docking clamps release.

“Ten seconds,” a pilot announces over the intercom. The chamber shudders, and the engines roar to full power. “Two, one, departure.”

The transport accelerates upward. My body is flattened against the seat, my chest thick with the reverberations. In the display, the Embassy sinks slowly from view. Shield Tower—the closest branch tower to the docks—reflects the young morning sun. The Crown shines beyond it, and the rest of the city looms in the hazy background. There’s the Main Throughway, a silver streak curving through the desert. Somewhere out there, miles to the east, is where I stood with Glacia last night, our lives small enough to hold in our hands.

Soon the city is a blend of streets and towers. Cars are small specks navigating a maze. Hovercrafts circle the docks. The desert swallows the Embassy and the city becomes an odd silver patch in the dirty landscape.

Now we’re higher than the day when we flew the Molters. The Mavine River—a dried-up river gorge north of the Embassy—etches a jagged crack across the desert. Mesas become dark dots, distinguished only by their shadows.