The sky was raining fire. Not the destructive fire of war, but the cleansing fire of reentry. Hundreds of satellites, remnants of the Coalition's surveillance grid, were burning up in the atmosphere. They streaked across the dawn like shooting stars, leaving trails of white smoke that dissipated into the clearing blue.
Ezra stood at the bow of the Wanderer. The boat moved silently now. The engine was off. The sails were furled. The ocean itself was pushing them. A steady current, warm and purposeful, carried them south from the Arctic. It felt less like sailing and more like being swallowed by a living thing that intended to spit them out exactly where they needed to be.
Tomas sat on the deck, cleaning his rifle. He didn't look up at the sky. He had seen too much fire in his life. To him
