And then he felt the blare of Wyatt’s gaze on them and remembered that she was there, seeing this. Heat stole into his face. What was wrong with him?

“I’m okay,” Tom said, edging himself away from Olivia until he hung off the edge of the bench. “I’m good.”

“You can opt out,” Olivia said softly, her eyes intent. “You don’t have to do this.”

Tom’s gaze skittered over to Wyatt’s, then danced away. “Nah.” He laughed again. “I’m fine. I’m good.”

Despite his words, his instincts were screaming at him when he stepped inside the Census Chamber and found Blackburn facing the screen, the projected light of the census device on his back, casting a dark silhouette against the larger screen. Tom’s eyes found the metal claw looming threateningly over the seat, the one he’d been tied to for two days, and he couldn’t tear his eyes from those straps hanging from the chair.

“Raines.”

Tom jumped. He faced Blackburn in the shadowed chamber, his blood roaring in his ears.

Blackburn considered him for a long moment. Then, “Did you see anything that can’t go into an official record?”

Tom blinked.

“Well?”

“Uh, what?”

“All this footage”—Blackburn jabbed his thumb toward the census device—“will be reviewed by external auditors. Not just me. Did you see anything that you can’t afford to show to anyone other than me?” There was an intensity in his voice, and Tom finally understood what he was asking.

“Uh, yes. Sir. There’s something.”

“What?” There was a frightening light in Blackburn’s eyes.

Tom drew back a step. He looked uneasily up at the census device.

“Raines, I can’t use the census device on you if there is something others can’t see. That means you need to tell me with words what you saw on that fly-along.”

Wait. So this meant . . . Wow. This time, his strange ability with machines was actually his defense. Relief crashed over him in a giddy wave.

“Yeah. I saw something. Sort of.” The words tumbled out of him; he feared Blackburn’s offer might disappear if he didn’t tell him everything quickly. “I know there was someone with a neural processor behind it. The processor was controlling the ships remotely. I don’t know who it was, or where they were doing it from. I didn’t get a chance to look into it, really, before we got crushed. I know that a third neural processor was interfacing with the ship somehow. Not mine. Not Heather’s. Someone else’s. I felt it.”

Blackburn rubbed his big palm over his mouth.

“That’s it,” Tom said lamely. “Sir.”