“One more thing,” I say, and grab a small trolley by the legs. I swing it hard at one of the arms of the E4-EX-19. Sparks fly, the glowing orb that floats in the center flickers. I hit a second arm and the orb goes out. I swing the trolley four more times, completing Abril Ortega’s cryptic task to destroy the device, whatever it is.

“Sure, now’s the best time to deal with your anger issues,” Malachai mutters.

I take the riser and run toward the window, grabbing Malachai by the wrist as I go. I can hear the sound of Tyco shoving off the heavy steel cupboards, hear the elevators opening up, hear about ten more drone-risers gliding up toward us.

“Apple-Moth, let’s go!” I scream, and the drone darts into the pocket behind my body armor.

And then we’re in midair, the enormity of the Arc beneath us, stretching out into the daylight.

Malachai screams, half out of fear and half out of exhilaration.

I push down the riser beneath our feet and our descent slows. Not by much—the riser is meant for only one person—but enough that there’s at least some control.

Now I scream too as we zoom down the side of the building, the drone-riser staying flat beneath our feet, adjusting to the angle of the building, pushing us outward toward the foot of the dome.

Suddenly, the ground is approaching, and I’m aware of just how fast we are going. Apple-Moth, possibly sensing the speed of descent, floats out of my pocket and hovers in the air. I watch the little drone get smaller and smaller.

“This is going to hu—” I manage, and then we’re being thrown into the scrubland at the back of the Arc.

I feel my wrist snap and something ping in my back as my legs are thrown over my head. My chin scrapes along the ground and then my ear is ripped half off. For a full five seconds I can’t breathe, my diaphragm cramping from the trauma. I sit up, finally hauling in a rasping breath. Malachai is holding his side, a bubbling stream of blood seeping out between his fingers.

“I think I’ve broken every single rib. Every single goddamned rib,” he gasps.

I can hear the sound of his snapped bones popping back into place from here, and I can feel my own ear zipping itself back to the side of my head.

“We have to keep moving,” I say, my voice equally as gravelly as his.

I drag myself to my feet and help Malachai to his. I try not to show the panic I’m feeling as I see that three segments have now lit up in his eyes.

“Apple-Moth, time?” I call out, and the drone floats into the air beside me.

“You’re alive!” the drone wails happily, spinning loops in the air. “You’re alive, alive, alive!”