The dust from the tectonic probe settles slowly in the cold, blue light of the observation deck. It coats the reinforced glass of the containment chamber in a fine, gray film, obscuring the heavy steel door that is now permanently buckled inward. The air smells of pulverized concrete, ozone, and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline.
I kneel on the cold floor of the medical bay, my heavily bandaged hands trembling as I wipe a fresh smear of dark blood from beneath Asher’s left nostril. My son is slumped against Kade’s chest, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow and ragged. The geometric lattice in his silver eye is dull, receding back into the dormant depths of his stem cells, but the physical toll of anchoring a tectonic plate is evident in the pale, waxy sheen of his skin.
Margot, I
