All three of us fall silent. With the medical emergencies averted, it becomes clear just how badly we’ve screwed up. I walk over to the scorched patch of dirt where Phiri Dun-Ra’s explosive went off, kicking around tattered bits of duffel bag and misshapen hunks of metal. The bag was probably filled with conduits, but I don’t find anything even slightly salvageable.

We are now totally stranded here.

When I turn around, I find that Adam has picked himself up and is now standing over Phiri’s unconscious body.

“We should kill her,” he says coldly. “There’s no reason to keep her alive.”

“We don’t do that,” Marina answers, her voice gentle, reasonable. “She can’t hurt us if she’s tied up.”

Adam opens his mouth to respond, but seems to decide against it. Marina just saved his life, so I guess he feels like he should listen to her. I actually find myself agreeing with both of them—Phiri Dun-Ra is nothing but trouble, and holding on to her is just begging for her to screw us over again. But killing her when she’s unconscious seems wrong.

“We’ll at least wait for her to wake up,” I say diplomatically. “Figure out what to do with her then.”

The others nod in silent, glum agreement. We head back to the Sanctuary. I use telekinesis to float Phiri’s unconscious body along with us. Once we’re back, Marina keeps the ice shackles nice and thick until we’ve used an electric cable to safely secure the Mog trueborn to the wheel of one of the many broken-down ships. At this point, I’m pretty sure she’s playing possum. Let her. Marina’s right—she can’t hurt us while she’s tied up, and if she gets free, well, I’ll make sure Adam gets his wish.

Not sure what else to do, I try the satellite phone again. Still no answer from John. That makes me think of Phiri Dun-Ra telling us that the war had already come and gone. I don’t have any new scars, which means John and Nine are still very much alive, but that doesn’t mean everything is copacetic back in New York.

“Adam, can we key into the Mog communications from one of these ships?” I ask. “I want to know what’s happening.”

“Of course,” he replies, jumping at the opportunity to do something productive.

The three of us climb on board our old Skimmer, Adam settling into the pilot’s seat. He successfully powers on the ship’s electric systems, although the lights flicker spastically and something in the Skimmer’s core groans at the effort. Adam begins turning a dial on the dashboard, picking up nothing but intermittent bursts of static.

“I just need to find the right frequency,” he says.

I sigh. “It’s fine. Not like we’re going anywhere.”