Romy noticed he didn’t specify the direction. Even now he worried more about the audio chip in Romy’s brain than giving her tangible details.

Obviously the memory card still worked if the space soldiers were dead. Which they were going to be, because a meteor shower couldn’t stop her from bringing Deimos with them.

“No,” she repeated.

“Don’t be a fool.” He shook her. “We can save the rest of them. Deimos will be okay. Houston will stabilise him. We cover him. I’ll come back for him once you’re safe.”

A protectiveness she hadn’t felt in a week surged to the fore. “No! Not happening.”

Atlas ran both hands through his black hair and surveyed her, gripping what he could of the short locks.

He brushed past her and barked at Houston to stand back. Picking up one of Deimos’s limp arms, Atlas hauled Deimos—not small by any means—across his shoulders.

He moved back to the front of the group as Romy tried to withhold her surprise.

They resumed their pace. It was quicker than before, though Atlas carried the unconscious Deimos. Romy couldn’t help casting frequent darting looks at the towering man beside her. He continued to alter her perception of him every time she thought she might finally understand him.

He was carrying Deimos on his back.

But you’ve been wrong once before, a voice reminded her. Romy brushed it aside.

Did he do it for selfish reasons, because Romy was “the key”—whatever that meant—or because he cared?

The one good thing about their gruelling pace? Romy felt stronger than she had in days. Like the adrenaline surge had placed a temporary welding over the worst of the cracked glass, holding her strong until her knot was safe. Even the fog was gone.

Romy swung the rifle higher on her shoulder and looked behind to check everyone was there. Elara had her head bowed, clearly near her limit. Romy’s dedication to her exercise routines on the orbito had paid off, and Elara’s laziness hadn’t.

Atlas gave her a glance as she started dropping back. A light frown shone under the glisten of sweat.

“Elara needs help,” Romy explained.

He nodded, grunting as he hoisted Deimos into a better position.

Romy let Phobos, Houston, and Thrym pass by to jog beside Elara.

“You can say it,” the pixie-haired girl puffed.

“You should’ve done more cardio,” Romy said immediately.

Elara let out a breathless laugh. “You . . . suck.”

Romy pointed upwards. “Atlas said it’s just over that hill.”

Elara looked up. And up. And groaned with what breath she could spare. “Shoot. Okay. But there better be some kind of massage lined up when we arrive.”

A tight smile played on Romy’s lips as she jogged just behind the girl, gun bouncing at her side. When the going got tough, Elara became a comedian.