The Ignota (Scars of Tomorrow Book 2)

By Tom Calen

Assassination has rocked the Global Alliance. As one Family falls, the others rush to claim the spoils. The victims of treason seek revenge, but the layers of manipulation and deceit thicken around them.

The unrest the Alliance was so desperate to suppress has spread. Enemies are forced to align, though mistrust gnaws the bonds of their fragile alliances. Torrance, the man from the woods, a figure feared by both friend and foe, knows his tortured past is driving him towards an unwanted future. Worse, he can find no alternative path and no way to stop what others have decided for him.

In the shadows, a new agent, known only as the Soothsayer, whose allegiance and aims are as shrouded as his identity, plucks the first notes in the song of war.
And a divided rebellion fears the price of casting off the anonymity that has kept it safe for a century. But when the empowered clash, the weak must unite or be crushed. One decision, one impossible act, will set the resistance on a new and irrevocable course. The world will know the Ignota.

Amidst all the lies in war and politics, the stouthearted might still unearth some truths. Truths of the Ignota’s origin. Truths of the Alliance’s endgame. But, it is war and it is politics, so even those truths cannot be fully trusted.

The pieces are on the board. But who are the kings, and who are the pawns? And who moves them both?

So continues the story of Torrance, the Ignota, and the Scars of Tomorrow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Oct 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781618683847

Book preview

From the Prophecy of the Sowilo:

"From the darkness,

hidden from the world,

the Founder’s Blood will come.

Trumpets of Fire announce

the arrival of the Dagaz."

Note to the Reader

Constructing a Genesis

Tracing the factual origins of any subversive group is a challenge for even the ablest of historians. Unlike countries and corporations, insurgencies rarely have official dates of formation. Some of my contemporaries in the field assign the point of genesis to the counter group’s first formal act or declaration. As you might have guessed, I do not agree.

History provides many examples of an insurgent movement conceived well before its first shot was fired. The American Revolution, La Cosa Nostra, the Irish Republican Army, the Palestinian Liberation Organization, and Al Qaeda all began as small sparks before their bonfires of maturity became known to the world. And so it was with the Cohors Ignota.

Adding to the difficulty of mapping the Ignota’s conception is the disinformation supplied by the group itself. In order to protect its fragile infancy, the Ignota not only hid the identity of its members, but also intentionally leaked false names and bases of operation. A sagacious strategy to be sure, but one that creates a formidable obstacle for sociological investigation.

I have been fortunate enough to enjoy a long life of good health; thus allowing me decades to peel away the many layers of shadow and secrecy surrounding the Ignota. Combining my own experiences, conversations with the principle players, and a thorough post-war study of diaries, records, and official archives, I have compiled the most complete, but in no way definitive, exploration of the Cohors Ignota’s founding and subsequent rise to global prominence.

Criticisms on Objectivity

Quite expectedly, I received a great deal of . . . I’ll call it feedback . . . regarding the first volume of this historical narrative. Readers and critics of Torrance fell into two categories.

One group, comprised of those who spit and curse at the very mention of the man from the woods, hurled at me accusations of being a sympathizer. They claim my view of Torrance, and his actions, paint too rosy a picture. I might concede their point if not for the second, and equally large, camp of detractors.

Those who revere Torrance near to deification have been no less critical of my initial volume. To them, I have created a depiction of their hero inconsistent with the mythology and, for some, their own memories of the man.

In my opinion, such strong reaction from both sides is proof of my objectivity. Having known the man—as much as one could, and perhaps better than any others—I am confident in the impartial accuracy of my narrative.

Personal Changes

In writing this second volume, The Ignota, I found myself relying on third party accounts—which should, but likely won’t, please my critics. After the events retold in Torrance, I had become more aware of the inexplicable . . . changes . . . occurring with me. Only thirteen at the time, I had no immediate reference to help guide me through the metamorphosis. However, even though it was some seventy years ago, I do not recall fearing those changes. Perhaps if I had known what it meant, what bearing it would have on who and what I was to become, I would have been frightened. But, that tale is still to be told.

I mention it now only to better explain my increased reliance on secondary, and in some cases tertiary, sources to write this work. As I was struggling to understand my internal transformation, I had withdrawn from those around me; spending most of my time in quiet reflection. As a result, I was not present for many of the conversations and deliberations contained in this text.

My research, however, has helped me reconstruct those events from which I was absent.

-Marcus Seton

Grand Historian

Chapter One

Danica Seton

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Danica squinted as her vision adjusted to the muted glow of the oil lamp sitting atop the desk in the corner of the small room. Faint sounds echoed in the hall marking the morning stirrings of the many others living in the underground safehouse. Danica arched her back to relieve the familiar stiffness earned from yet another night spent sleeping in the stiff, unyielding chair. Out of habit, and perhaps some residual hope, she turned her eyes to the bed.

No change.

For nearly seven weeks, she had repeated the morning ritual. And for nearly seven weeks, her mornings had begun with disappointment. Though the wounds had long since healed with barely a visible scar (much was owed to Dr. Nysgaard and her medical skill), her father, Philip Seton, had yet to rouse from his overlong slumber. His color had returned once nutrients and medication had flowed into his stomach and veins. The swelling in his shattered hand had subsided; though Dr. Nysgaard doubted the extremity would ever function properly again.

He’ll need a biorobotic prosthetic, the blonde doctor had said, promising to perform the surgery once the Ignota obtained such a device. Living as they were, underground and on the run, Danica knew such a find was unlikely.

Checking the IV running into his arm, Danica whispered, Good morning, Dad. If he heard the words, he gave no sign. It’s Friday. At least she thought it was. Keeping track of the days had become a painful reminder of just how long the coma continued to last.

I’m going to shower and grab breakfast, she told him as she rose from the chair, but I’ll be back soon. I’ll bring Marcus with me, too.

As of late, her younger brother had been an infrequent visitor to their father’s bedside. While she could understand the boy’s reluctance, Danica could not help resenting the absence. She had assumed the role of nurse and guardian in the weeks since rescuing their father, and Danica wished she could share the burden.

Marcus instead chose to spend his time with Torrance, their dark and brooding champion from the Pennsylvania woods. Grateful for the benevolence the man had shown them, Danica still struggled to understand her brother’s fascination. Torrance was far from a conversationalist, yet Marcus managed to pass hours in silent reflection with him.

At first, Danica believed the boy’s devotion was inspired by juvenile hero-worship. Lately, however, she had begun to sense a different motivation. It seemed as though Marcus was engaged in a deep study of the man from the woods – something more akin to an astronomer observing a new phenomenon in the far reaches of space. A philosopher, perhaps, in search of hidden truth. Whichever, it was a bizarre condition for a thirteen year old boy. But then, Marcus himself had grown . . . different.

First realized when they shared a cell in an Alliance military complex, Danica had watched as Marcus slipped further from the brother she once had known. He had adopted Torrance’s near-constant silence, speaking only when necessary, and even then in clipped cryptic phrases. It was not the sparse, enigmatic speaking that bothered her. Marcus had become detached. Detached from her. Detached from their father. Detached from everything and everyone. Everyone except Torrance, of course, she concluded the thought as she walked into the hall.

Danica kept her head lowered as she navigated the interweaving passages of the underground safehouse. Located in the northern Ohio town of Oberlin, the Ignota camp was a large complex of tunnels and rooms dug beneath the town over the last several decades. Oberlin itself was quite familiar with masking fugitives from sight, having once served as part of the Underground Railroad[1] in the early years of the old American Empire. Eleven Ignota cells were in residence; twice as many as the facility could support. With the expanding intensity of the Alliance crackdown, the overcrowding was unfortunate and unavoidable.

With a preference for anonymity, Danica often took her meals back to her father’s room. Due to his condition, Philip Seton was afforded one of the few solitary sleeping quarters. Danica had expected complaints once the population grew and space became a premium. She learned, however, that her name had a near celebrity status among the Ignota. The events from two months’ past, when Torrance had led the siblings through an explosive escape from Philadelphia and a subsequent assault on an Alliance base, had become a rallying event for the besieged rebellion.

Her presumed familiarity with Torrance had also elevated her in the eyes of the Ignota. As each new cell had arrived in Oberlin, its members had sought her out and peppered her with questions about the man. When her answers fell short of their expectations, they assumed she was protecting Torrance – thus adding to the mystery. And while Danica did indeed believe her knowledge of him to be private, the truth was that her knowledge was very limited. Even if she had wished to, Danica would not have been able to answer the majority of the questions with any accuracy. Recently, and much to her relief, the interrogations had ebbed to a manageable degree.

One question in particular, however, had yet to wane in its abundance. Each morning without fail, and without a change in her reply, they would ask, How is your father?

Their concern was genuine. She could see the emotion in their eyes; hear it in the hushed tones. She appreciated the sentiment, but the question stung each time it was asked. Her father’s condition had not changed in seven weeks, and Danica hated the repeated reminder. Sometimes she wanted to scream out, He’s the same! If he was awake, would I be walking with my head down fighting back tears?

More frustrating was that Marcus should be the one asking, and he was the only one who never did. Last week, after a night of too little sleep, Danica had erupted in anger with her brother. She had hurled harsh accusations at the boy; questioned his familial love.

Calm faced and even toned, Marcus had replied, He’s not ready to wake up, Dani. Everything’s changing, and we need to be prepared for it. That’s what Dad would want; not for us to sit and watch him sleep.

That was the last time she had spoken to Marcus beyond the pleasantries of hello and goodbye. Not that she saw much of him anyway, devoted as he was to all things Torrance. In fact, the sole person Danica spoke with at any great length was Dr. Nysgaard. The tall Nordic woman seemed to understand Danica’s feelings of loss and despondence. Thus, it was no surprise Danica found this morning’s thought-filled wanderings had led her to the woman’s quarters.

Morning, Danica said as she hovered just outside the door.

Lost inside her own musings, the doctor took a moment before registering Danica’s presence. Good morning, Danica, Dr. Nysgaard replied, gesturing for the girl to enter.

Like Danica, Dr. Nysgaard had been ordained with an unspoken degree of preeminence among the forces gathered at Oberlin. The news had splashed her digital across the networks, labelling her a prime target of the Global Alliance. Moreover, Danica suspected the doctor’s relationship with the cell leader, Gavin McAvoy, added to her importance.

Did you sleep well? the woman asked once Danica took a seat on the worn two-seater couch. Dr. Nysgaard’s room was larger than most, and allowed for a small sitting area just before the arched divider leading to a bedroom. Stacks of paper, mostly maps and blueprints, cluttered the small table and dominated much of the floor.

Yes, Danica lied.

Smiling her awareness of the untruth, Dr. Nysgaard cautioned, You need to take care of yourself, Danica. Down here, it’s pretty much every man for himself. I can’t have you collapsing on me. Are you eating?

I was on my way to get breakfast, she said. And Corey brought me dinner last night.

Oh really? Dr. Nysgaard teased. I’m jealous. He used to bring me my meals, you know. I guess he’s got his eye on you now.

Normally Danica would have blushed if an adult had made such a hint, but she felt at ease with the doctor. Despite the difference in age, Dr. Nysgaard treated her as an equal.

I doubt it, Danica replied with a roll of her eyes. She could understand why Corey, or any man for that matter, would desire the doctor. Now that the bruises had faded, Dr. Nysgaard once again resembled the digital Danica had seen on the news. Tall and lithe, with long waves of blonde tresses and skin as smooth as white marble, the doctor was the fantasy of most men. Danica judged her own appearance to be inferior.

In his efforts to disguise her, Torrance had hacked off great lengths of Danica’s once auburn hair. The dye he had used had faded over the weeks, leaving her with centimeters of reddish roots ending in an equal measure of black strands. Though the pixie cut was growing out, it would take a year or more before her hair reached its former length.

Fingering the short strands, Danica thought, At least now I have clothes that fit.

I think you looked beautiful with your hair short, Dr. Nysgaard announced as if reading Danica’s mind. I wish I had the guts to cut mine off, she added. Long hair isn’t really manageable when you’re a wanted terrorist. Not a lot of salons in the underground, you know?

Danica enjoyed a genuine laugh. This was why she appreciated the doctor’s friendship. For a brief time, she could escape the sullen thoughts that plagued her mind. Dr. Nysgaard never asked about the girl’s father. The omission was in no way malicious; she had spent meticulous hours attending to Philip Seton’s recovery. The woman knew more about the condition of Danica’s father than anyone else, and therefore did not need to burden Danica with well-intentioned inquiries regarding his status.

Don’t complain, Danica said with mock frustration. Your hair is one color. I’m walking around with a two-toned mess!

With almost child-like energy, Dr. Nysgaard jumped from her chair and exclaimed, I say we fix it!

What? You mean, right now?

Crossing to a small desk, the doctor shuffled papers aside and produced a silver-sleek pair of shears. Yes, right now, she answered. I have some time before the morning briefing. My sister and I used to do each other’s hair. We can at least trim off the black and shape the rest.

Seconds after agreeing, Danica traded the couch for a chair and watched as short wisps of black floated down to decorate both the floor and her lap.

They talked of silly things as the scissors clicked and snipped in steady cadence: mutual enjoyment of popular holovision shows, movies each had seen before the chaos had entered their lives. And, of course, boys. No matter how well Danica steered the conversation in a different direction, Dr. Nysgaard worked Corey Branson back into the amiable chatter.

You have to admit he’s attractive, in a charming boyish way, the woman cajoled. He’s not much older than you.

Seeing no way to further avoid the admission, Danica relented. She did indeed find the Ignota scout good-looking; an opinion formed the first time she had seen him. Well, perhaps not the first time, given the bedlam of the situation. But, once events had settled (strange how fugitives in a safehouse now felt settled to her), Danica recognized Corey’s appeal.

It doesn’t matter anyway, she said as the doctor made some final adjustments. With my dad still . . . asleep, and Marcus doing whatever Marcus is doing, and the whole world falling apart, what should I do? Start dating?

Dr. Nysgaard crouched low in front of her and enveloped Danica’s hands in her own. Danica, I lost my father a few years ago and it nearly killed me. So, I can’t say I’d be doing anything different if I were in your place. But, your father is alive. And not just medically. From every test I was able to run, there’s no reason to believe he won’t wake up. I’ve seen similar cases when a person has suffered extreme trauma. Sometimes the brain just needs time to recover.

He’s not ready to wake up, Danica repeated her brother’s words while fighting the heavy wetness in her eyes. Marcus said that to me last week.

I think your brother is right. When I said ‘it’s every man for himself’ before, it means finding your own ways to be happy, too. I know your dad, and he would not want you running yourself down waiting for something you can’t speed up. You’re right. The world is falling apart. But, if you can find something, someone who makes it a little less scary then you should allow yourself that.

Now, the tears did run.

Like you have with Gavin? Danica asked.

Dr. Nysgaard’s milk perfect skin reddened at the cheeks as she smiled. Yes, like I have with Gavin.

Have what with Gavin? As if the mentioned name was a summons, the man himself passed through the open door. His brows lifted in confusion once his eyes surveyed the unusual scene. You running a spa on the side?

Just a little girl time, Dr. Nysgaard replied. Danica noticed the glow of the woman’s features when she addressed the cell leader. To Danica she said, Oh, you have a bit of hair here, and wiped away the remaining tears from the girl’s face.

Meeting’s about to start, Gavin said, gallantly ignoring the emotions of the room.

Lifting herself up, Dr. Nysgaard asked, Danica, when was the last time you went outside?

It took a moment to recall, and with surprise she replied, Not since we got here.

Gavin, would it be safe if Corey took Danica up to get some fresh air and sunlight? the doctor asked as she gave Danica a mischievous wink.

After a hasty shower, rushed more due to the lukewarm water than any real time constraint, Danica took a moment to examine her newly shorn hair. While short, the look was a vast improvement over the inexperienced styling skills of Torrance. She made a mental note to thank Dr. Nysgaard when next the two were together. Selecting a laundered pair of dark denim and a lightweight gray knit sweater, Danica dressed and set out to meet Corey Branson at the main entrance to the underground complex.

The Ignota scout smiled as she approached. Having none of the muscular bulk of Torrance or the cell leader Gavin McAvoy, Corey possessed a build somewhere between lanky and athletic. Some centimeters taller than she, Danica imagined the young man’s appearance would have been quite common on a college campus. College, Danica laughed to herself, I guess that’s off the list now, too.

All set? he asked in greeting. Was there a slight catch of nerves in his voice?

I think so, she replied. Do I need a . . . I don’t know, a gun or something? Whenever people go up, I see them take guns. So, I wasn’t sure if I should have one. I’ve only held a gun a few times. And I’ve never fired one, so even if I took one with me, I don’t know that it’d be much good.

Oh my Truth! Stop rambling and shut up!

Corey smiled and shook his head. No. Oberlin is still pretty safe. For now, at least. There was an Alliance patrol two towns over a few weeks back, but nothing within fifty kilometers.

Oh, good then, Danica returned, still berating herself for her nervous chatter.

Follow me.

A short metal staircase, wide enough for three people across, sat at the far end of the tunnel. Ducking low once they neared the top, Corey rapped a sequence of knocks on the heavy wood slab covering the passage. Hazy lines of dust fell from the seams as unseen hands lifted the panel from above. Familiar faces welcomed them topside, as if the pair was emerging from a ship.

How’s it looking today? Corey asked one of the men.

Skies’a’cleah, the Ignota guard replied. His heavy Texan accent delivered the answer in one word.

Nodding, Corey informed, We’ll be about an hour, and then led Danica forward.

Still dazed when she had first arrived at the town and its hidden shelter, she had not realized how well disguised the entrance had been. The room itself, situated in the basement of a small home, was furnished much like any common family room. A small holovision platform in one corner, comfortable –looking couches and chairs along the perimeter, and shelves decorated with family digitals of the house’s occupants. By the time Danica reached the stairwell rising to the first floor, the men had replaced the shelter’s hatch door, unfurled an ornate rug, and placed a low coffee table at its center. No sign of a terrorist shelter remained, even to her aware eyes.

Passing through the upstairs kitchen and out the home’s rear door, Danica frowned at the dark clouds and the steady rain they poured down.

I thought he said the skies were clear? she asked.

Corey lifted an umbrella above their heads, and replied, Clear of patrols.

Though his tone held no condescension, Danica felt foolish. Genius, why would a guard be giving weather reports?

If you don’t want to be out in the rain, we can go back, he offered with noticeable disappointment.

Even if such a thought had crossed her mind, the first breath of fresh air was too intoxicating to resist. Once a distance runner for her high school’s track and field team, Danica was used to training in less than agreeable weather. In fact, she rather enjoyed it. On a kilometers-long run, rain was a welcome coolant to the heat of exertion. And, again, there was the air.

Seven weeks below ground had tricked her senses into believing the staleness of the shelter was the norm. Breathing the fresh crisp scent of late fall, with its sweet musk of falling leaves and slight chill, was a baptism of nature. Swooning, Danica said, No, this is perfect.

The fear of discovery faded as the two walked along the paved sidewalks of the small town. Her past forays into populated areas had not ended well. Perhaps sensing her initial unease, Corey detailed some of Oberlin’s long history with the Ignota.

Gavin’s great-grandfather, Seamus, was a Founder of the Ignota. He established his first cell in Oberlin. Now, most of the families living here are descendants of that cell.

An Ignota city, Danica added. It was challenging to maintain her focus on Corey’s words. Huddled close under the umbrella, the aura of his youthful strength was as heady as the air.

Pretty much. And even though not everyone’s an active member, they’re proud of their history and keep the secret. Hey, you hungry?

Realizing the morning’s unexpected events had preempted her breakfast, Danica confessed to being rather starved. Declaring the café four blocks over had the best blueberry waffles she would ever taste, Corey switched his grasp of the umbrella and took her hand. An electric spark of excitement coursed through her at the small gesture.

Unbeknownst to her parents, Danica had gone on a handful of dates over the previous year. Though none had been worthy of much celebration, she was not inexperienced in terms of sex. Or, at least, the intimate acts which often led to intercourse. Her two closest girlfriends has boasted of doing it with their respective boyfriends. Danica, however, had twice declined the same opportunity. Her restraint owed nothing to old-fashioned views of virginity, but instead a lack of self-esteem.

I’m telling you, best waffles ever, Corey said as he closed the umbrella and held the café door open for her. Blushing at her distracting thoughts, Danica stepped into the quaint eatery.

Henney’s Twenties, as the three-dimensional holograph projected above the rear wall named it, was decorated in the style of forty years past. Tables and chairs, booths and fixtures, all in a milky opal, contrasted with the nostalgic lighted walls. Shades of green, blue, and yellow, and all the hues in between them, were fading and melding in steady progression along the panels; giving Henney’s Twenties a sort of visual pulse and rhythmic throb.

A more than plump, middle-aged woman, with enough extra weight to jiggle as she walked, left the table of customers nearest the kitchen and made her way over to Corey and Danica.

Well, took three days, but I guess someone’s stomach made him return, the woman said in a voice too soft and childlike to accommodate her years and size.

Raising his hands in a show of playful remorse and self-defense, Danica’s escort answered, Henney, you fed me so much last time I didn’t get hungry again until today!

Filling two glasses with orange juice, the proprietress cocked a brow and made quick study of Corey. Please, you’re still just skin and bones. But, we’ll fix that this morning. And who’s this lovely . . . oh! Ms. Seton, I almost didn’t recognize you without your long hair. You’re even prettier in person. That’s why I hate digitals. They never do a person justice. And I always end up looking fat!

Danica stumbled with a reply.

That was a joke, dear. You can’t be famous for your waffles and be skinny at the same time.

Forcing a nervous laugh, Danica said, I guess that’s true. Oh, I don’t mean that’s why you’re fat! I mean not that you’re fat! I mean, with the waffles and the syrup, and . . . Stop talking! Stop talking right now! Her brain obeyed and forced her jaw to snap shut.

Laughing, Henney said, As nervous as a virgin on her honeymoon. Sweet, too. No wonder Corey keeps talking about you.

Having been drinking his juice during Danica’s torment, Corey gagged and sputtered at the woman’s last words. Danica tried to hide her smile behind her hand as she watched him fumble with a napkin to wipe the beverage from his face.

Well, that should even it up, the woman said with a grin. Batter’s fresh, so order when you’re ready. With that, she waddled her way over to another table of diners, leaving the pair in their mutual embarrassment.

Struggling to recover some dignity, Corey said, So, now you’ve met Henney.

Danica, feeling much emboldened by the exchange, said, You’ve been talking about me, huh? Tanned as his skin was, she could still see his cheeks color. Now it’s even, she thought in amusement.

Well, I, um, he said before clearing his throat. I’ve probably mentioned you before. You know, in passing once or twice.

Believing Corey had suffered enough, Danica looked down at the menu in the glass tabletop. The small town café had limited offerings: burgers and sandwiches for later meals, and the much-acclaimed selection of waffles for breakfast. Tapping the glass to place her order, Danica chose a serving of blueberry waffles with a side of bacon. The digitals of each item set her mouth to watering.

A few brief moments of awkward silence passed before Henney delivered the dishes to their table. From the first bite, Danica discovered Corey’s description of the waffles was not misplaced boast. Even if the meals prepared in the Ignota shelter had not been bland, she still would have thought the waffles heavenly.

Wow, she said through a full mouth.

I told you, Corey laughed, pleased she was enjoying the breakfast.

Recalling her manners, Danica swallowed and asked, How long have you been coming to Oberlin?

Couple years. When I joined the Ignota, Gavin brought me here to train. Any time we need to lay low for a long stretch, we come to Oberlin.

Danica wondered if her future included similar stays in Oberlin, or perhaps permanent residency. There had been ongoing debate among the cells, and especially between Gavin McAvoy and Torrance, over the resistance’s next actions. Some urged action, while others advocated patience. On any given day, McAvoy (and by default Dr. Nysgaard) and Torrance voiced support for both ideas, usually in opposition to the other man. More than once, the tension between the two men had nearly come to physical confrontation. Unsure of her own status, guest of the Ignota or full member, Danica feared she would be forced to one day choose between the two factions. Follow Torrance who had risked his life to protect the Seton siblings, or Dr. Nysgaard who had been treating their father for almost two months? And then there’s him, she added as she looked at Corey.

Some change in her expression caused the scout to ask, Something wrong?

Dispelling the worrisome thoughts, she forced a smile and replied, No, I just . . . it’s nothing. Would she be one of those girls who make decisions based on a few smiles from a boy?

Accepting her ruse, he began to ask, So what do you—

Corey, Henney’s girlish voice broke in from the kitchen. Bustling towards the table in what might have been a comical jog if not for her dire expression, the woman said, My sister in Lorain just called. She said PKs just entered the city.

How many? he inquired. The tone of his voice had dropped all of its soft charm, and reminded Danica of the older, more hardened men of the Ignota.

All she said was ‘the milk’s gone sour.’ It’s our code. But, from her voice I could tell she was nervous.

Lorain’s less than twenty kilometers from here, the scout replied, worry now edging into his words. They’ve never been that close before. If they sweep south, the PKs can reach Oberlin in less than a half hour. Henney, get word to Gavin and the others. Tell them I’m heading up to scout. Can you make sure Danica gets back to the shelter?

I can go with you, Danica announced. You can what? the wiser part of her mind shouted.

No, Corey said. It’s too dangerous.

You’re just going to scout, right? I snuck onto a PK military base with Torrance. And if something happens to you, someone needs to get back here to let the others know what’s happening in Lorain.

In his eyes, she could see him struggling with indecision. Whatever swayed him—her words, his feelings, or the ticking clock—Corey nodded his agreement. Not two minutes later, the pair was seated in a podcar and traveling north out of Oberlin.

Chapter Two

Sonje Nysgaard

It had been a simple thing, the brief time spent trimming the girl’s hair, but for Sonje the interaction had been a soothing balm to her worried mind. Despite the surroundings, despite the situation, the world had almost felt right once again. Almost.

How’s she doing? Gavin asked as they walked from her room.

Shrugging, she replied, Considering everything she’s been through, I’d say she’s holding up pretty well. Her mother is dead, her father’s unresponsive, and she’s been in hiding for months. Danica’s young, but tougher than she thinks.

Ignota going about their daily tasks filled the halls of the overcrowded safehouse. One need not be empathic to detect the growing restlessness among the men and women living underground. Sonje knew it was not uncommon for soldiers, trained for battle, for action, to suffer when kept idle for too long. The results of the daily cell leader briefings would generate a buzz of excitement until the dismay of further inaction came along.

And the boy? Gavin asked while nodding acknowledgement to fellow Ignota.

He’s . . . odd. Very quiet, very withdrawn. I met him twice while working with Philip, so I don’t know if it’s trauma or just his normal personality. He’s been spending most of his time with Torrance.

Reason enough to be traumatized, the cell leader muttered.

Though Gavin had suggested Torrance join the Ignota, he had come to regret the offer. There had been a noticeable tension between the two men quite early on. They tested and prodded each other, much as two alphas might vie for control of the pack. Sonje, however, did not believe Torrance had any desire to join the Ignota, much less lead one of its cells. The man seemed to distrust the group as a whole, while reserving particular animosity for Gavin. Sonje hoped this morning’s briefing would be less contentious.

Gavin resented the other man’s presence at the meetings, but could voice no complaint. Sonje was not a cell leader, yet the group had likewise extended an invitation to her.

You can’t let him get to you, she cautioned, knowing it was as useful as teaching a pig to fly. If Gavin intended to reply, the moment was lost once they walked into the briefing.

Seven cell leaders had already taken their seats around the large oval table. The remaining chairs filled as Sonje, Gavin, the final three leaders, and Torrance filed into the room. Sonje, placing herself between Gavin and Torrance, smile at two men across the table. Camorata and Marshall, as opposite in outlook as they were in appearance, had been part of the assault on the PK base. Thus, Sonje felt an easy kinship with the men. We went to battle together, and survived, she thought.

What do we have for updates? Thompson Fielder asked from one end of the table. A few thin wisps of gray covered the man’s nearly bald head, and even those grew only along the sides and back. Nearing sixty years of age, his skin bore the deep creases of worry and stress. Sonje could see the beginnings of a thick scar on his cheek before it disappeared into a full beard. The most senior of the gathered group, Fielder had become its unofficial commander.

Marshall was the first to answer, his voice booming as always. My scouts returned last night. Three cells in Missouri have been taken. But, they did make contact with two in Indiana. Both have gone underground. The few Fifths my men discovered had little intel on the PKs’ movements, save that they’re pressing inland from each coast.

It had become difficult to find Fifths, the Ignota operatives living and working in the world while funneling information to cells. Whether already rounded up by Peacekeeper troops, or in fear of exposure, the Fifths, and by proxy the Ignota’s communication network, had gone dark.

Pretty much the same in the South, added cell leader Peter Yan. More cells destroyed than found. The Fifths are still fairly active down there though. We’ve got about a dozen names of Alliance agents overseeing the SID implantation.

After failing to retrieve the damning evidence Sonje and Philip Seton had compiled, the Global Alliance had announced a delay in the SID upgrade. The government had cited a minor design flaw as the reason for the schedule readjustment. Two days ago, a press conference announced the chips were ready for implantation. In one month’s time, the upgrade process would commence. While the delay had been a minor victory for the Ignota, Sonje doubted any recalibration of the SIDs had occurred in the interim.

What about you, Sam? Fielder asked the lone female cell leader. Samitha Borden had sent her trio of scouts west to California weeks ago, and the team was now two days overdue in its return.

No word, yet, she replied.

We have to assume they’re lost, Marshall added. Which means our location might be compromised.

Sam Borden said, My people won’t talk! If they saw capture as inevitable, they . . . they would have taken appropriate measures.

Suicide, Sonje understood. Among the Ignota there existed an unspoken creed of death before capture. The identities and locations of cell members were too valuable to risk divulging under the Alliance’s expert torture. These are hard people, she thought, wondering if she could take her own life if faced with the decision.

The other leaders shared their respective updates, most detailing similar findings from their scouting patrols. Sonje feared she would grow numb to hearing the same disheartening news each day. Even scientifically trained, it was a challenge to think of lost cells with objective abstraction. Every day starts with the news of more dead Ignota.

The only actionable intel we have then, Gavin said, "is these Alliance agents. Pete, you said we have a dozen names? Then, we should greenlight targeted