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Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight “You know this isn’t going to work, don’t you?” Daman taunted. “You burn a few of those things, but there’s too many of them.” Someone muttered for him to shut up. Arela sussed, wide. Daman smirked—he must have heard too. “Can’t ignore facts. Can’t ignore the man with the gun.” Arela turned, her back to Daman. “Piran, whenever you’re ready.” The tech had moved to the terminal by the games table. His digits twitched, too fast to see the individual movements. The screen, the one they used to show sports in down-time, sprung to life. But this wasn’t a games field, or even one of the training rooms. Instead, the view showed a night-vision image of the walkway outside the rec hall. It swarmed with shades. They pushed up against the door itself, green-tinged and blurry, but
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