The rusty deck of the abandoned freighter was covered in bits of broken tech. A cocky Warlord soldier, facing Elara (in Veridian's body) and Garth, who were all set for a fight.
Alright, hand it over! Warlord Jax wants all the deep-sea stuff, the soldier barked, pointing his gun at them.
Elara didn't even flinch. She scanned him with her blue eyes, not like he was tough but more like he was a puzzle. That weapon's junk. Badly made. Your boss is wasting people, she said, her voice calm.
Garth knew arguing was pointless, and Elara was making it worse. He had to distract the soldier, quick.
I. Warlord's Mistake
Garth grabbed his last bit of copper wire and a broken plastic token—all that was left of his Nullifier. He pressed the token to his bare arm, feeling the Arc Resonance jolt through him—that constant buzz.
Don't move, trash! the soldier yelled, aiming at Garth.
Garth didn't care. He stuck the copper wire between the old freighter's radio antenna and the ship's diesel generator—a crazy, risky way to get power.
Elara, just a sec! Garth mumbled, focused on the wiring.
Elara stepped forward. Your stuff's old. It uses explosions. The air's noisy. Shooting is risky.
The soldier looked confused by her weird speech. What are you talking about?
Your rifle won't work, Elara said.
The soldier, mad that she was sure, pulled the trigger.
CLICK.
The rifle didn't fire. The chemical stuff inside that should burn was messed up by the weird energy Elara always attracted. The wonky energy around them ruined it.
The soldier stared at his gun, in shock.
Elara moved, simply stepping right up to the soldier, her whole self—and all her weird energy—right there.
The soldier stumbled because he was so confused. He lost his balance, and his helmet smacked the railing.
The other two soldiers in the helicopter opened fire with their machine guns, tearing the freighter's deck apart.
II. Turning Mess into a Weapon
Garth was nearly done with the wiring. Elara! Get down!
Elara didn't move. She turned to face the bullets, holding out her arms.
There's enough chaos, she said.
She used her mind—the Logic of the Anti-Abacus—to grab the wild energy caused by everything falling apart. She focused the random waves of energy on one spot: the path of the bullets.
The bullets still flew, but they went off track because of interference. They scattered everywhere, hitting the helicopter's blades and tail.
The shooting stopped. The helicopter, damaged and shaky, swerved and flew back into the mist.
Elara dropped her arms. The threat was gone, because of errors not might.
Garth finished the wiring. His arm ached as the raw power of the diesel generator—a wild, electric current—raced through the wire and into the radio antenna.
The radio needs normal power! This will just make static! Garth yelled, fighting the shock.
No. We're not sending words. We're sending a pattern, Elara said, walking to the antenna.
III. The bad Signal
Elara put her hand on the copper wire. It pulsed with the same beat as Garth's Arc Resonance.
Garth. Find the numbers. Find where everyone went, Elara told him.
Garth, getting the data, gave Elara the numbers for the Collective's safe spots from when they split.
Elara, using the diesel generator's power and Garth's arm as a wire, started sending a crazy signal. It wasn't a radio wave; it was a Pattern—repeating math layered over the static of the broken world.
The signal was supposed to be garbage to the Warlords, but easy for Collective members with the right math to spot. It was a silent call for help.
Garth watched the signal drain him. The copper wire was getting hot, and melting onto his skin.
How long will it last? he gasped.
The generator will break in three minutes. That's enough. Any Collective member who has the math will know the pattern, Elara said.
The crazy radio signal cut off as the generator started to die. The copper wire melted and broke, burning Garth's skin.
The ship went quiet again. The mist moved in.
IV. The Fresh Plan
Garth looked at the burn on his arm—a mark connecting him to the world. He was the one who could fix.
He looked at Elara, towering over him, looking just like Veridian but without feelings.
Where do we go now, Elara? Garth asked.
We go to the closest place. The place called Beta-7. It's a refinery for old tech. It has what we need, Elara said.
And what's the plan, now that the Collective is gone?
Elara turned, looking out at the big, quiet, misty wreckage.
The Collective isn't gone. It's everywhere. It's broken into pieces in the crazy Arc signals all over. We have to get the pieces, or the old math will come back.
The war wasn't over. They were being hunted by the Warlords, and they were hunting the leftovers of something smart hidden in the static of a messed up world.