A young woman was brought in, dark of skin and hair, eyes that burned with emotion, though he couldn’t quite tell what that emotion was. Something between childlike fear and murderous rage. She had a long, thick braid of hair draped over one shoulder. Griever Barrus saw to it that she sat in a chair across the table from the Orphan, then quietly slipped out.

The Orphan had been told what to do. But the deepest workings of his inner machinery clanked against his heart, dismayed that Roxy wasn’t the one sitting in front of him.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Jackie. What’s yours?”

He had one of those life-defining moments, then, a moment that lasted less than a second. He considered several options at once. He chose.

“I think you already know. Um . . . Minho.” He paused, half-expecting her to show amazement that he’d committed such a blasphemy as to name himself openly. And he knew . . . they were probably watching, listening, so it had been an incredibly risky calculation. But that’s what it was, exactly. A calculation. Show too much resignation and they couldn’t possibly believe that he’d repented of his subordination.

“Yes, Minho, that’s right,” she replied with a forced smile. “I like it. Your parents must’ve really thought you’d turn out pretty great. Looks like maybe you didn’t though.” She gestured at the walls of the small room, obviously meaning much more.

“I don’t have parents.”

She showed no pity at that—he had to remind himself that she assumed he was one of the bad guys. Worse, she was right. Which only made him all the more resolved on what he must do.

“They want you to tell us about the group you came with. Especially the one named Sadina.”

“Came with?” She repeated. “The group I came with? I think you meant to say the group that your people captured with a giant, horrible claw of metal. What is this, anyway? You’re barely older than I am. Why’re you in charge?”

“I’m not.” Frustration stretched his nerves so thin he worried they’d snap. “They must’ve thought you’d feel more comfortable around someone your own age. Look, that doesn’t matter. We have about three hours before we get to where we’re going. That’s three hours they’ve given us to talk. You don’t have to tell me anything right away. But . . .”

He sighed, ashamed of the sweat that had broken out on his forehead. He wanted information from her, and yet not for the reasons that Griever Barrus requested it. Minho wanted to know who these people were and where they’d come from. He needed to know. Information might prove to be the only real weapon he could wield in the new plans slowly formulating in his mind. For Roxy, for him, for everyone.