I can’t afford to waste time. With all my strength, I force away the nagging thought and turn in the direction of the station itself, then pick my way through the train yard until I’m crouched in the shadow of the nearest tower. Guards on top of Newage’s walls have their attention trained mostly on the clusters of former Maran refugees wandering around outside the gates, picking through the destruction of their former homes in the Outer City. I see two of the refugees scuffle over something they have found on the ground. Is it some precious scrap of memories? Is it shoes? I don’t know, but the incident is enough to distract nearby Karensan soldiers into heading toward them to break it up.

I don’t waste the opportunity. The moment the guards leave, I move into the shadow cast by the body of the train. There, I plant the first cylinder, tucking it underneath the wood of a track. Then I plant another, and another. The work is easy, if tedious, until the guards rotate back. When they do, I pause and hide again, my eyes turned toward Jeran’s tower for his signal.

His silhouette in the long grass is almost impossible to pick out. I stare at him for so long that I almost believe he has vanished. At last, I see his head shift subtly, followed by the faint sight of his fingers moving against the moonlight.

Anyone else would be unable to make out his signs from so far away, but I have extraordinary sight, and there against the night, I can decipher his words.

“Wait thirty seconds,” he signs. “The guards will rotate to the third tower, and in the gap, you can move to the other side of the tracks.”

I turn my attention back to the tracks. I wait the full thirty seconds, then take a deep breath and slip between the cars to the other side of the tracks. Sure enough, the space is empty, the guards gone for a breath. I move as quickly and quietly as I can, placing the spheres at careful intervals.

Most of the cars of this train seem to be carrying back hauls of crumbled stone and twisted steel, remnants of Newage’s destruction that the Federation must want to recycle and turn into better things. I glimpse cars filled with nothing but glass shards or black stone or mangled sections of metal.

Under the tower, Jeran signs again, “One minute.”

I speed up my work. One sphere, then another, then another. On the opposite end of the train yard, Adena should be nearly done cycling around the station building itself. By the time we are finished and leave this site, no one will be the wiser that this entire site is rigged for destruction. The thought brings me a sense of grim satisfaction. Months of us hiding in the forest, rescuing the occasional prisoner, nothing more, while helplessly watching Karensa lay down these tracks and rebuild Newage the way they want, has eroded our confidence.