Orson was still surrounded by Liberty Corps Shapers when the mirage fields failed. His HUD directed him to the flickering shadows and odd, refracted light, as the devices that hid Littlefield’s protectors sputtered and ran out of power.

Suddenly, the dozens of defensive emplacements were visible, the sources of the bullets and rockets and other projectiles bombarding the War Force.

This offered no help to the majority of the Liberty Corps troops, still trapped under Enoa’s shroud, but both airships powered on their repulsors, spraying dirt in all directions, as they prepared to launch.

“New priority!” Orson spoke into his comm. He knew the Shapers and other melee attackers would hear him, but there was nothing to be done and no sense being covert. If they still hadn’t surrendered, they would never. That sealed their fate. It didn’t particularly matter what they heard.

“On it!” Eloise yelled through the comm. The Aesir flew low, strafing the two airships. One raised its shields, the energy absorbing the glancing blows from the Tri-cannon. The second rocketed into the sky, the Aesir in pursuit.

Orson left the others to their work. He had to count, and he was in far too much pain to multitask. The longer his HUD’s full functionality overwhelmed his vision with light, the worse his forehead and temples seared with pain.

The two tanks were gone, so was the railgun, so was one airship. Two of the Cannon-mount mechs lay pulverized in the road. They’d stood beneath the airship when it fell. What remained was unrecognizable, smoking scrap.

Nine-flails and seven of his Shapers lay in pieces. Twenty-two or twenty-three remained, if the telegram could be believed, and it had been correct about everything else.

He counted only nineteen. They attacked, intermingled with the heaving mass of red and blue armor that surged from the fog. The Shapers summoned axes or swords or knives, or sent raining showers of iron down at him.

Even with their white armor, it was difficult to get a precise count of the Shapers. They moved without any coherent plan, their gear and Shaping techniques almost identical.

Orson stopped counting when the final Cannon-mount mech stepped from the fog. The five-meter bipedal machine spun its shoulder-mounted rocket launchers to the north, toward the visible concrete barricades where Littlefield’s defenders were hiding.

Orson had no more time for his headcount. When a halberd-wielding Shaper rushed him, Orson followed his HUD’s analyses. He ignored the searing in his face and cut the weapon and its wielder in two.

Then he started his repulsor and flew at the mech, before its pilot could fire into the crowd of Littlefield’s defenders.

* * *

Kol lost the feed from the Partizan when the airship launched from the ground. He was left in darkness, as silhouettes flailed through the fog – screaming and running and dying around his rover. Kol lay sideways on the seat, flipping through Liberty Corps command channels, hoping to catch some mention of Brielle.

He heard only the sounds of chaos. Even the officer class had devolved into panic. The War Force was Sloan’s, and the Governor was dead. Everything else was just the dominos falling as they would, inertia or irresistible gravity pulling events toward their conclusions.

Kol had been unprepared for the onslaught from Littlefield or Orson Gregory’s full ferocity, but these were not the truths that overwhelmed him. He had witnessed the chaos after the fall of the old world. He was the youngest son in a long line of warriors. He knew the real face of war, the horror without glory, bloodshed without hope of victory.

But Kol could not face the truth that this was his fault. The massacre of the Liberty Corps forces was happening because of his warning. Surely this was the truth. He had enabled and helped the same kind of butchery he’d hoped to avoid. He was beyond questioning the morality of the carnage around him. He could only absorb the sounds of pain and fear and death in the fog, unsure what he would do next.

His certainty returned when he heard the soft ping from his datapad. The sound barely cut through the background noise, but it was unmistakable.

The transponder. Duncan.

Kol returned to the tracking window and found a small yellow dot to the south, less than a kilometer away. The dot was getting closer, the tracker slowly zooming in as his location and Duncan’s drew nearer.

Duncan was sneaking up on the Littlefield defenders’ position. He was sneaking up on Enoa Cloud and her key.

Kol remembered the force of the blast from Cloud’s staff and the searing pain across his chest. She had been prepared, all her life, to learn Shaping. If she was truly studying, in earnest, what was she capable of doing now?

The fog – Kol realized. The impossible fog was hers, Shaping so powerful it bordered on sorcery, some incomprehensible witchcraft.

Duncan was headed right for her. Kol knew his friend.

He could not save Sloan’s forces. He’d had no power to halt the bloodshed. He could not save Brielle. She was too devoted to the Liberty Corps. He could not teach her to question her certainty in the cause.

But he could stop Duncan from being killed by Enoa Cloud. He could stop Duncan from doing more harm to Enoa. She had suffered enough by their choices. They all had suffered enough for the Liberty Corps.

Kol was decided. He gathered those belongings he could not abandon, his things and Duncan’s and loaded them into two of the duffel bags they’d packed for their journey from the outreach base. He knew he could not run across the field of battle dressed as a Liberty Corps officer. He had to survive long enough to reach Duncan.

Kol assembled a costume for himself from Duncan’s stash of disguises, enough to let him keep his captain’s armor, but hide it. He would not abandon his sword either, little good it would do against Littlefield’s forces or any Liberty Corps troops who would attempt to kill him as a deserter.

Kol did not question himself. He didn’t let himself feel the horror of his newest truth – desertion. He was too distracted by the slaughter around him, unseen in the fog. He was too occupied by his purpose.

Kol ran from the rover, wrapped in Duncan’s poncho, astronaut helmet on his head, two duffel bags over his shoulders. He pressed his datapad to the side of the helmet’s visor, as he ran. He was guided only by the glowing screen and the small dot that showed him Duncan’s location.

Kol left the rover and the War Force behind him.

* * *

Enoa didn’t let herself feel pride in her hard work or the results of her training. She didn’t savor the success of Littlefield’s protectors or the defeat of the Liberty Corps.

For the brief minutes of the Littlefield attack, Enoa found perfect control, control of herself and her new mental influence. She didn’t doubt whether she could force the stratus clouds to engulf the Liberty Corps. She didn’t enjoy her success when her Shaping tilted the conflict, when she blinded even the Liberty Corps artillery teams.

While Orson and the Aesir and the defenders of Littlefield were consumed by battle, Enoa had found peace and strength, an unlooked-for culmination of her training. She felt contentment, an active calm, the warm embrace of returning home after a journey. Shaping Anemos felt like Aunt Sucora and better times. Those memories created a perfect feedback loop – peace into control into strength. Her strength made the fog impenetrable.

Enoa barely noticed the mirage-fields fail or her own personal shield generator issue ‘low energy’ warnings. She’d stopped paying attention to the water trucks when they were three-quarters full. She missed the brief Liberty Corps regrouping, as they overwhelmed the shields with a cluster of rockets, sending explosions across the Littlefield line and protectors running for cover.

Enoa missed the Aesir blast the airships from the sky and strafe the forces on the ground. She missed Orson dismantle the final Cannon-mount mech, sending the remaining iron Shapers scattering in all directions. She almost missed the crowd of Liberty Corps troops throw down their weapons and run from the back of the line and from the edge of her fog, fleeing on foot, back along the road.

Enoa passed almost completely into her meditation, separate from reality.

She was only pulled from her reverie when she heard a man say her name. She didn’t know the voice, and she didn’t like the tone of his words.

Enoa gasped, as if shaken from a deep sleep, her mental control on the fog briefly lifting. She regained her concentration, but only through sudden adrenaline. She spun around and found a man standing only ten paces away, facing her and her water trucks. He was dressed as an average migrant, with worn boots and a threadbare coat. His hair was trimmed short, the rough beginnings of a beard on his chin.

“Enoa Cloud,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He raised his right hand. He held something – a weapon? Who was this?

Enoa closed her right hand around her staff. She thought about speaking, but she wasn’t sure if she could interfere with gunfire and maintain the fog, at the same time. She fought to be present for battle and to continue blinding the Liberty Corps.

“I’m here for your aunt’s key to the Dreamside Road trove,” the man said. “If you give it to me, I’ll leave, and you’ll never see me again.”

Her key? Enoa didn’t have enough mental strength left to ponder this man’s allegiance. It didn’t matter if he were Liberty Corps or some other strange treasure hunter who’d wandered out of nowhere, walking in from the empty landscape. All that mattered was whether she could fight him.

“If you don’t,” the man raised his hand and the small device he held. A white light blinked on and off at its side. “I will broadcast your location to every Liberty Corps Officer within twenty miles.”