Twenty-three
Kesia brought the Proteus low over the trees, as instructed, and turned on the arc lights. She connected her lattice to the external sensors and the cool evening air rushed over her skin. She felt warmth from the lights, and the intense whiteness bleached colour from the scene below.
She saw the confusion Murdoch had anticipated. The clearing was a glorious mess. Bodies, both human and subjects, lay on the ground, while many more ran in panic.
She brought the Proteus lower once she was clear of the trees, almost touching the heads of those below. Some of them cowered, others tried to reach for her—for the craft—as if it would offer them salvation.
Oh, how wrong they were.
Ahead was the container, swarming with people, the lights of their traces glowing so feebly, so p
