Daphne’s prickling doubt turned into dawning horror. Meena gripped her arm as she came to the same realization.
A dull roar filled their ears. Daphne looked up and saw the edge of an army-issued airship flying the British flag, dutifully patrolling the skies. But as she watched, it was shortly joined by another, this one even more massive as it emerged from the clouds like a monster rising from the depths.
The same ship that had attacked the Notus.
“Run,” Partha said.
“Hey! You lot! What do you think you’re doing?” Crosby turned from his station and started toward them. At that moment, the airships began to attack each other with earsplitting cannon fire. “What in the hell—?”
Partha removed the pistol at his hip and shot Crosby in the stomach. Meena screamed as the lieutenant doubled over, coughing up blood. His brown eyes were wide, his teeth stained crimson.
“Indian—bast—”
Partha shot him again in the head, and Crosby went down.
Daphne couldn’t move, couldn’t react. Her body had become nothing but the pulsing whir of the airships above. Sepoys began to flood the street, tackling and shooting and stabbing the British soldiers.
“Daphne!” Meena screamed. “Move!”
Blood spread. The tower trembled. Bells rang. Time shivered. The world descended into chaos and impulse and the slowing of the second hand—tick.
A tremor in the air as time began to unravel.
Tock.
Danny’s hands were shaking as the herald finished the proclamation in Urdu, his clothes damp with sweat.
“We can’t do anything,” Akash whispered. “It’s too late.”
Danny ignored him. The riflemen were moving into position. Now or never.
Then Danny saw something that gave him a surge of renewed hope. Captain Harris had somehow joined the proceedings, standing toward the back of the riflemen.
Harris! Had they read his message? Had they figured out the rebels’ plan? But the start of Danny’s relieved smile quickly died when Harris, along with the others, drew his weapon up to fire.
I’ll always fight for the promise of an easier tomorrow, Harris had said. Right or wrong, selfish or not, this is what we want.
Whatever it takes.
Everything became clear, each detail cut precisely like facets in a diamond: the determination in Harris’s eyes, the stance of the sharpshooter he was, the pleats in his trousers, the glint of the rifle—an Enfield rifle. Even from this distance, Danny could see its B3005 serial number.
Danny turned to Akash. He’d seen Harris, too.
“We have to do something,” Danny said, sounding strangely calm despite the turmoil inside him.
But Akash only stood there, an unspoken apology in his eyes. Danny took a step back.
“No,” he gasped. “God, not you, too!”
“Danny—” Akash tried to grab him, but he was already turning to the stage. The first cracks of the furious joy began to split the air, drowning out the sound of Akash calling his name.
Colton hadn’t known he could run like this, even though fatigue tore through his blistered side and into his chest, tightening his body with pain. He pressed on, determined to find Danny before anyone else.
There were so many people, all their heads turned toward a platform where a man dressed in blue stood before a throne. Colton stopped and searched the crowd, desperately calling Danny’s name.
Something pulled at him, a tiny pinprick of his own power. He had felt it in the auto and knew he had to follow. The cog. He moved toward it, shoving his way through the crowd, following the pale thread that would lead him to Danny.
“Where are you?” he whispered. “Where are you?”
And then he saw him. Even from the back, Colton knew him. For some reason Danny was dressed as a soldier. He was looking to the right, his body rigid. He turned to an Indian boy standing beside him before he started running—not to Colton, but to the platform. Colton pressed forward again.
“Danny!” he cried out. “Danny!”
Then a loud sound broke the morning air, a fearsome banging that hurt his ears. Large, gray animals—elephants, he thought distantly—lifted their trunks and trumpeted. Men with guns were shooting into the air in a strange pattern; as soon as one fired, the soldier on his left fired, until the effect was a rippling cascade of sound.
Colton’s voice was lost in the din. But something made Danny stop and turn. Something compelled him to look over his shoulder, a finger plucking the thread between their bodies.
Danny saw him. Their gazes locked. His eyes widened.
His lips shaped Colton’s name.
For a moment, time froze. There were no soldiers. No guns, or elephants, or even India. Just two boys, so close and so distant. Colton reached out a hand for him, still so impossibly far away, but somehow thinking their fingers could touch if he just willed it enough. Danny took a step forward.
And stopped.
A tear ran down his cheek.
He mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”
Then he turned and kept running.
Colton tried to follow, but Danny was too fast. He watched helplessly as Danny launched himself onto the stage and pushed the man in blue out of the way.
A bullet struck Danny in the chest.
Colton screamed, fighting to get past the sudden mayhem of soldiers running in all directions. His eyes were only on the spray of blood that had burst from Danny’s chest, the look of shock and pain on his face. Danny stumbled back into the throne and fell, making the Queen’s portrait topple over.
Time heaved and groaned. The earth shook. Danny’s blood tasted the air and made it writhe, static and sparking and surging.
“Danny!” he yelled. “Danny!”
Hands grabbed Colton from behind and ripped the cog holder off his shoulders. The weakness intensified and he grew limp, collapsing into the arms of the person holding him up.
He hadn’t noticed a shadow falling over the camp. An airship hovered above them, its engines whirring loud enough to drown out most of the confused yelling below. On the platform, a figure wearing dark goggles had picked up Danny and thrown his unmoving body over his shoulder like a rag doll. Blood poured from Danny’s chest, his hands stained with it.
“Danny,” Colton whispered again. He couldn’t keep his eyes open, but he had to see where they were taking him. He had to follow. He had to …
Daphne struggled as she and Meena were pushed into the airship. She could barely make sense of what had happened below, except that someone had grabbed them and forced them into a small plane. And now they were here. A large Indian man with a turban had hold of her, while a tall English boy restrained a squirming Meena.
“Let go of me!” she growled, twisting her arms again without luck.
“We can’t do that, Miss Richards.”
She froze. The voice belonged to another English boy, who stood at the end of the metallic hallway. His clothes, dust-stained and wind-whipped, were soaked with blood. He was using a small towel to wipe his hands, leaving streaks of crimson on the fabric.
A pair of tinted goggles hung around his neck.