All of them were two decades old. He’d spent so much time trying to read a story between their bleak, matter-of-fact lines: Conflict spreads to military bases. Neuromodified “reader” soldiers split from commanders. General Yeni defects. Battle at research laboratory. “This is a reader coup,” declares military high command.

Surit finally let the thought trickle in: There’s nothing here.

He’d found his mother’s ship, and he’d risked both Tennal’s escape plans and his own unit to do it, and there was nothing to discover.

What had he expected? A letter from his mother, written just for him? A confession?

Surit scrolled through his hoarded newslog records again—dozens of screens, covering every day of the three-month rebellion—and the words blurred.

This whole thing was a dead end. He slumped onto the desk, his forehead against his arm. What if the whole concept of understanding was meaningless? Twenty years ago was ancient history. Nobody cared about Marit Yeni anymore.

And here he was, thinking he would do good where his mother hadn’t, while he’d failed his unit and failed to help Tennal. Above his head, an address system reminded him that Archer Station was under martial law. Everything repeated. He’d found Marit’s ship and nobody else cared.

The feed gently chimed, and a newslog reader gave a calm reminder about the legal purposes for civilians to gather on station decks.

If Cavalry and Archer high command couldn’t agree on what was right, then what was right? Surit had been given responsibility for other people, and he couldn’t even do the right thing for them.

This was all it came down to. Surit, in a small room, with no role, no power, no purpose. If the past or the present could be changed even in a small way, it wouldn’t be by him. He shut his eyes.

After some time, there was a knock on the door.

A pause. Surit heard it unlock.

Tennal stood in the doorway, looking surprised that it had opened for him. Surit, sluggish from lack of sleep, blinked slowly.

Tennal had acquired a tailored officer’s uniform in the two days since Surit had last seen him. He wore it carelessly, the jacket unbuttoned, the collar uneven. All his Cavalry colors were gone. Instead he wore Archer gold on his shoulders, and both his service tab and his personal tab glinted with crossed wheat stalks. Governor Oma’s mark.

Tennal swept a look up and down Surit. “Guidance Lights, Yeni, get up.”

Surit took a moment to rouse. “Tennal?” His voice was dry. “What…?”

“When did you last sleep?” Tennal asked incredulously, pacing across the room with a rangy, electric energy. “Get up! Shave! Wash!”

Something in Surit’s head responded to orders. He stumbled to his feet. Tennal caught his arm to stop him from tripping.