I push myself to standing. Shaking legs carry me past Tyco’s bed. I glance at the boy who tricked me, told me he had forgiven me, that we had to work together to survive the end of the world, and then stuck an Ebb patch to my back and planned on killing me slowly with a knife. I ignore him. Let him become one of them, I think, and try not to dwell on the shame. And as the thought flashes through my mind—Kill him now—my shame doubles, not because the thought is cruel, but because it would be merciful, and yet I don’t have it in me to end his life.

I move to Malachai’s bed as the sirens wail and Happy’s voice gives instructions.

I grab the boy—who now has one segment of light shining out at the top of each iris—and haul him off the bed.

Malachai sucks in air and then pushes it out of his lungs, screaming as he does. “Took your fucking time, Luka!” he gasps.

“Sorry,” I say, unable to think of anything else.

Suddenly, the older boy grabs me, wrapping both arms around me and holding me tight. “I love you, Luka, you’re my hero.”

“You’re mine,” I reply, my voice muffled by the skin of his bare shoulder pressed against my mouth.

“Got a plan?” he asks, his mechanical eyes scanning the room and the floors below us. “Because there are one thousand and ninety-eight soldiers all heading this way. We have about fifteen seconds, according to these magical eyes.”

“Less,” a voice comes from across the room.

I spin around and see that Tyco is sitting up, his eyes glowing bright white. Happy is onto us.

He leaps down from the paralysis bed and strides toward Malachai and me.

“Shit, shit,” Malachai mutters, stumbling backward, not yet recovered from the Block and the paralyses of this place.

“Hi, new friend!” Apple-Moth says, zipping up to Tyco’s eye line.

Tyco swats the little drone to the floor. And in that moment I feel a blinding rage.

I move forward to meet the Alt, raising my fists. I swing hard at his head but he ducks it easily, throwing a hook as he does, his fist connecting with my solar plexus and knocking the wind out of me.

I crumple to the floor, gasping for air, and Tyco aims a kick at me, the top of his foot slamming into the underside of my chin.

My head rocks back and I see white stars in my vision, but the rage is still pulsing through me. I get up and run at Tyco, tackling him around the waist and dragging him to the floor.

Tyco throws three jabs and hits me each time, once in the left eye and twice on the jaw.

“It is futile to fight me,” Tyco says, getting to his feet. “You are shorter than this host, lighter than him, you did not have the upbringing he did, and you have no upgrades.”