Five seconds after the soldiers arrived, they are now dead in front of us, their eyes fading until there’s no light in them anymore, artificial light or life-light.

“What the hell?” I murmur.

And then, from behind me, a rustling of branches.

I stand and turn in time to see a girl emerging from the thicket. At first she is almost invisible—she’s wearing camouflage clothing and her face is painted in shades of green, leaving her looking like an apparition.

“Step aside, Luka,” she says, slinging the strap of the USW rifle over her shoulder.

“Molly?” I ask, sure that this is a mirage. The last time I saw my sister she was an emaciated clone, high on Ebb, sores on her face, cracked lips, sunken eyes. Now she looks strong, tough.

I feel overwhelmed, overcome—elated. My legs are suddenly too weak to hold me and I slump down to the ground.

“You’re alive,” I say. “I can’t believe you’re alive. Molly …”

She drops to one knee beside me and Malachai and I reach out to touch her, to make sure that she’s real, but she ignores me, removing a thin metal tool from her pocket.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She doesn’t reply, only removes the T-shirt from Malachai’s head, places the tip of the spiked tool against his Panoptic camera, and pushes down with all her strength.

The tool spins and sinks into Malachai’s head. Jesus, hasn’t he been through enough? I think, but I’m still too overwrought and incredulous at the sight of my sister to really feel much else.

“Take his legs,” Molly says, extracting the tool, which has grabbed the tiny camera from the bleeding hole in Malachai’s forehead. “I’ll grab his arms.”

“Molly, you’re …” I start, but my brain feels like it’s short-circuiting as I try to comprehend what’s going on.

“Hurry, there will be more of them,” she says, throwing the dislodged Panoptic into the trees. There’s something strange about her voice, something dull and listless.

Molly grabs Malachai around the chest and then gives me an impatient look as I stand there, staring at her.

“Right, yeah,” I say, grabbing the boy’s feet and lifting him.

“Is this a new friend?” Apple-Moth answers, floating around Molly’s head.

“Luka, why do you have a toy?” my sister asks, struggling with the weight of Malachai.

“Uh, Apple-Moth,” I say, “sleep mode.”

“Oh, but we’re on an adventu—”

“Sleep mode, Apple-Moth,” I demand. “I promise I’ll reactivate you later. Your battery is on five percent anyway,” I point out, noticing the warning message hovering over the drone’s body.

“Fine!” the drone replies irately, and then falls slowly to the ground.

I pick up the drone and put it in my pocket, glancing sheepishly at my clearly impatient sister.