The Grief Walker, as big as Roxy’s house, appeared solid and unspoiled, which didn’t really surprise him. The Berg itself was always meant as a cushion for the invaluable machine cocooned within it. Although he didn’t know much about the machines, there was no doubt what an important project it had been for the Grief Bearers and all of the Remnant Nation, a project that had gone on for decades.

The round hatch before him was solid steel, a mechanical latch-lever thing that kept it closed. Minho grabbed the lever with both hands, then Orange joined him. They pulled in tandem, groaning with the effort. Minho finally lifted his feet off the ground, hanging every pound of his Orphan-trained body on the handle. It gave with a squeak, gave a little more with a squeal, then collapsed downward and the hatch popped open. It happened so suddenly that he let go and sprawled across the floor. Instead of helping him up, Orange darted through the hole and into the Grief Walker.

Roxy was on him instantly, threading her arms beneath his armpits, hampering more than helping as he got back to his feet.

“Thanks,” he whispered. It was kinda cool having a mom.

They followed Orange into the machine, their other friends crowding up behind them. Orange had stopped at the railing of the walkway that circled the entire circumference of the Walker—the control center was recessed into the rounded bottom of the vessel with dozens of windows to view the ground below while it was in motion.

Minho stepped forward beside Orange and saw why she had stopped.

A Grief Bearer and an acolyte were seated at the controls, having just begun the maneuvers to start up the machine. Two Orphans, Orphans he didn’t know, dressed in the rough vines and cloth of a wilderness-wandering, stood nearby, both of them holding the rifles that Minho knew all too well. And each gun was aimed—one at Orange, one at Minho.

Damn it, he thought. He’d really hoped they’d all died in the crash.

He and several of the others were crammed together in a small opening outside the hatch of the Grief Walker, the hatch small enough that they could only enter one at a time. About half of them were inside, and Ms. Cowan was just leaning through the hole when she abruptly pulled back and turned around.

“People are in there!” she said in a biting whisper. Although that much was obvious, Isaac knew what she meant. The people. The ones who flew the ships, the ones who’d taken them into the sky. She faced the hatch again, gave a worried look back at them, then entered the large machine anyway. Trish and Sadina did, too. Then Miyoko.

Dominic stood in front of the hatch. Jackie was right next to him, peeking over his shoulder.