“Just because their world is ending,” the Oracle said, “that doesn’t mean you have to die with it. What do you hope to do by going out there?”

“Something,” Poire said. “Anything.”

In the basement of the leaning tower, hundreds of roots hung down from the ceiling and covered the walls. Some were as large as Poire himself.

The Oracle was here too, casting a wild glow around the dank, open space. Everywhere Poire turned, the lights were there. Trying to grab his attention. Or block his way.

“This is not your responsibility. The protocol is,” the Oracle said.

“Who else will stop this?” Poire said.

“You are the last human being in existence. Think of your species. Think of the protocol. You are not thinking clearly, Poire. Waking up from the cold chamber is hard enough, but waking up alone, after thousands of years?”

“I didn’t wake up alone.”

“Poire.”

“Eolh was there. And he says Laykis was there even before him.”

“Poire,” the Oracle begged. “The entire future of all humanity depends upon your continued survival.”

There wasn’t time to talk.

Even in the basement of the leaning tower, the heat was stifling. He was filling every canteen he could find, drenching rags in cold, spring-fed water from a tap. They would protect against the sun, at least in the beginning.

“You are too young to make this kind of decision. There is no way you understand the gravity of your situation. You need more time.”

“There isn’t any,” Poire said.

“There is.” The Oracle’s lights blossomed into brilliance. “The protocol was designed to give you all the time you need. Do you really think you know better than the sum of all humanity?”

That made Poire stop. He touched at the twine around his neck. At the switch.

“If you go out there”—the Oracle’s lights pressed forward—“it will all end with you.”

“Mute,” Poire said.

“You cannot silence me!”

“Override.”

The lights flashed, but no sound came out.

“Lights off,” he said, and there was darkness.

He finished screwing the cap on the last canteen and slung it around his shoulder. At the top of the stairs, he found the android, propped in a chair. Waiting for him.

“Are you going to stop me too?” he asked.

“Even if I could,” she said, nodding down at her mangled body, “I would not. I only wish to ask: Divine One, are you sure this is the correct course of action?”

He nodded.

“And the danger?”

“If I don’t go,” Poire answered, “then who will?”

Her neck creaked as she nodded back. As if those were exactly the words she wanted him to say.

“The priest was right,” she said. “The door opens for you, Poire.”

Poire stared at her. How could she know about the priest? But his wrist was already buzzing, warning him about rising temperatures.

He felt like he should say something to the android. To thank her for all she had given him. Poire couldn’t remember the last time he had told a machine “thank you.”

“Go,” she said. “Before there’s no one left to save.”

Poire ascended the basement’s steps, out of the tower.

And into the light of the sun.

It was like standing too close to a bonfire, only the fire was all around him. Sweat immediately prickled at his arms and neck and forehead.

High above, the huge, shadowed underbelly of a terraforming barge dominated the sky. At the center of the barge was a massive empty ring filled with hyperfocused light.

Among other things, the terraforming barges were made to melt whole continents of ice. To introduce carbon dioxide into a planet’s thin atmosphere and help that atmosphere grow. This barge, however, functioned poorly.

Because it hovered so close to the planet’s surface, the heat from its focal ring should have been enough to melt the cobblestones under Poire’s feet. But the barge was old and scoured with rust, and the strength of its terraforming light was only enough to raise the heat.

Still, that heat was getting hellish. Poire’s wrist hummed vibrations now, marking every climbing degree. He muted the notifications.

The liquid armor, however, was not content. It rippled over his skin, climbing up his shoulders and down his legs. Up his neck and around his calves. Stop! Poire tried to send an impulse via his implant. But the rivers of metal ignored him. They slid up his chin, searching for his lips, his nostrils, his eyes. Any more and the armor would suffocate him.

“Stop!” Poire shouted, right as the metal closed over his mouth.

He gasped. He sucked down air. How? Poire was panting, breathing through the liquid metal. The intelligent metal thinned enough for his eyes to see, though there was a silver tint over everything.

The temperature readings from his wrist dropped dramatically.

Rays of light broke through the ceiling of black smoke, burning it away. A drone—a Fang—skimmed low over the rooftops above, trailing smoke as it burst through the clouds. Judging by the way its fuselage kept dipping, he thought it was suffering a mechanical failure. Either that or the pilot inside was being cooked alive.

The Fang changed course. It aimed straight at the barge and started climbing. The lone Fang became a black speck against that massive underbelly, blazing with light.

Poire started to jog, to watch the Fang’s progress over the buildings.

The Fang tried to lase the barge. Toothpicks against a mountain. Just before it smashed against the barge’s hull, it turned.

It turned the wrong way.

The Fang passed too close to that open ring, where all the light converged on a single, invisible point before shattering outward in a superheated cone.

Whatever was inside melted.

The Fang’s twin metal prongs tipped down, and Poire lost sight of the drone as it fell miles away across the city. He could not even hear the crash.

Poire’s jog had slowed to a walk. The cobbled street, the bricks on the buildings, even the fabric of awnings shone almost pure white in the barge’s incredible light. If he looked at them for too long, the buildings seemed to dance in place, and puddles of water wavered in the streets. As he approached, the puddles crawled away from him, always out of reach.

But the people out here—they were real. Lying in the street, clothes bloody and feathers burned. They were lined up along the buildings, collapsed in the doorways. The ones in the shade were struggling to breathe. And the ones out in the open didn’t breathe at all.

Even with the liquid metal covering his mouth, every breath brought in more churning heat. His own skin felt like it was starting to cook.

It doesn’t matter, he thought. Just keep going.

Talking to himself was the only thing that helped.

Look at your feet. Put one in front of the other. One step after another. That’s all you have to do.

He said it over and over. After a thousand steps and a thousand more, the words had no meaning. They were his engine. One step. Another. As long as he thought the words, his engine would keep his legs moving.

He touched his chest. The twine necklace still hanging there. A piece of home. Around him, the rafters of buildings groaned. Timbers creaked in a heat they were never meant to endure, and the older bricks were beginning to pop, spraying flecks of mortar and dust into the alleyways.

One step.

Crack!

Another.

Cre-e-eak . . . CRACK!

One step.

The terraces and apartments gave way to the vium, which led him to the towering set of stairs that hiked into the Highcity.

Hundreds and hundreds of steps.

Every time he looked up from his feet, he saw only more broad blocks of white seastone marching into the sky.

Just breathe, his mantra became. One step. Just breathe. One step.

He could not hear over the pounding of his heart and the ragged gasps of his own breath. Mucus filled his throat, but no matter how much he coughed, it would not clear.

Then the steps stopped going up. They reached a plateau.

First, his head crested over the edge, and he saw flat ground. Then, the rest of his body followed.

Poire teetered on the top of the last step. Almost sat down. Almost gave in to the mountains of heat that were crushing him, broiling him alive.

But there was shade ahead. The shadow of towering palm trees, one of many that lined the garden. He put his hand on the bark, using it for support, but even the bark was burning hot.

Above, huge leaves popped off the tree, great glossy sheets seesawing and tumbling in the air on their way down. The ones on the ground were already turning brown and crinkling in on themselves.

Beyond, an immense garden went all the way back to the cliff walls, ending below the balconies of the Hanging Palace. Fountains full of steam, grass beginning to smoke. In the center of that garden, surrounded by blinding-white polished stone, sat a tower. Asaiyam’s tower, Ryke had named it.

The light from the barge was so brilliant it reflected even off the cliff walls, making it seem like the tower had no shadow. Like it had been rendered in this place, and someone had forgotten to add that last touch of realism.

Just ahead, Poire saw a body. A cyran was lying in the open, surrounded by the wilted remains of ivy. His arms and legs were fanned out around him. His face was flushed with heat, and the deep blue scales seemed to catch too much of the false light from the barge.

But the xeno was breathing. He looked confused, as if he had just fallen from a great height and couldn’t figure out how he had gotten there.

Poire left the shade of the tree, and his wrist started buzzing again, more insistent than before. Off, he brushed it away with a thought.

Poire’s feet crunched on the dried leaves. The cyran struggled to turn his head. Only then did Poire notice the cyran’s dark blue uniform. Military?

The soldier rasped at him, trying to pull himself away.

Poire realized how he must look to this alien, with his whole body covered in chromatic metal. The liquid armor was so smooth on his skin he had forgotten it was there at all.

“Easy,” Poire said, and even his voice sounded strange to him. Amplified and muffled at the same time. “Just take it easy. Can you do that for me?”

He approached with his arms out, offering peace. Keeping his voice as calm as possible. “I’m just going to help you get in the shade.”

The cyran gasped again. So weak. So desperate.

Poire hooked his hands under the cyran’s shoulders and dragged him back. Despite the soldier’s greater size, he seemed to weigh barely anything at all. Together, they stumbled over to the slowly wilting palm tree.

Poire let the cyran drink from his canteen. The soldier gasped and panted between gulps, emptying it in seconds.

Then he looked up at Poire as if seeing him for the first time. His scales glinted dully in the light. “It’s you.”

“Where is the Magistrate?” Poire asked.

The soldier pointed toward the tower. His finger angled up, all the way to the top. So many hundreds of feet up.

Poire started to rise, but the cyran caught him by the hand.

“Please. Have mercy on us, Divine One. Save us too.”

“I’ll try.”

The cyran, gasping, let go of his hand. “I am not worthy.”

Poire shook his head, too tired to do anything else. “Neither am I.”

***

Another soldier was sitting at the base of the tower, slumped against the wall. The guard’s head was resting on her chest. Her uniform was soaked through with sweat, but Poire could smell the fabric burning against the stones.

He tried not to look as he passed her under the stone arches that lined the base of the tower.

There were more stairs spiraling around the center of the tower. The heat was trapped in the stairwell, sweltering and making his wrist vibrate incessantly.

No other choice.

One step. Just breathe. And another. He almost wished he hadn’t emptied that last canteen.

Though they were made of stone, the steps were bowed in the middle, sagging from hundreds of years of use. The footsteps had made the stone smooth enough for his feet to slip, even with the liquid armor grabbing the ground. He kept one hand on the curving wall, his metal-coated fingers dragging against the stone.

Up, and up, and up. Always turning inward. One step. Another.

There were no windows in the stairwell, only the odd gas lamp, and all of them were off. In the dark, the rectangle on his wrist glowed brighter than ever. He lost count of the steps. And started counting again. And lost count again.

Just breathe.

His wrist marked a change in the temperature. It was falling, by small degrees, but it was falling.

The metal around his face split open, letting his skin breathe. Letting all that sweat wick away in the air.

A light above.

Growing brighter. So blue it was almost white.

A silhouette of a head eclipsed that light.

One of the Magistrate’s centurion guards, his face hidden behind a helmet. The guard disappeared from the stairwell, barking something outside.

Poire pulled himself out into the light and blinked away the day.

Dozens of centurions stood waiting, ready to close their ranks on him.

They made no shouts, spoke no words at all as they waited for the command.

“Ah!” a voice exclaimed. One cyran stepped forward, his long coat fluttering at the heels of his shining boots. “Our Savior has arrived. I was beginning to doubt that you would come.”

The Magistrate was tall and thin. His humanoid face was gaunt, his cheeks sunken, and his deep blue scales were flecked with gold, especially around his eyes and lips. He held his shoulders high and one hand behind his back, radiating a kind of effortless confidence.

As if he were born to conquer worlds.

Both hands were covered with pristine white gloves laced with an unmistakable kind of metal.

Poire had seen those gloves before. Architects’ gloves. The metal fibers were no ordinary metal.

I wonder if they’ve bonded to him.

The Magistrate cleared his throat and cocked his head at the parapets. Only then did Poire see the twin stakes and the two avians tied to them. Ryke and Eolh. They were facing the city, their winged arms pulled painfully behind their backs.

The Magistrate’s guards stood at the ready, their weapons aimed at the avian prisoners.

His stomach sank.

“Well, Savior?” the Magistrate said, his voice soft and tense. “How are we going to do this?”

“Bring down your ship.” Poire held his hands together, letting his wrists touch. Holding them out. “Then I will surrender. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you. Just let them all go.”