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Kaelen dropped the grease gun.

But the cracks were spreading.

Kaelen didn't run. He stood in the center of the golden echo, smiling. His hands, for the first time in 1,247 days, were still. juy-947

For a full ten seconds, the Sub-Core flickered. The blue light turned gold. The humming pitch wavered into something that almost resembled a melody.

Instead, he peeled back the false panel in his pod—the one behind the toilet—and pulled out his collection: a sharpened piece of floor plating, a roll of conductive tape, a data chip he'd wiped clean from a dead supervisor's console. Kaelen dropped the grease gun

Kaelen had worn that jumpsuit for 1,247 days. He knew the number because he carved a tally mark into the steel wall of his habitation pod each night after the third siren. The pod was smaller than a cargo crate, with a recycled-air whistle that sounded like a dying animal.

He turned back to the supervisor.

Then, alarms.