'You?' I blurt, surprised. 'I didn't expect to see you again.'

My rescuer's carrying a linen-covered silver tray bearing two golden slices of toast, a dish of scrambled eggs, a bowl of cubed melons and oranges—garnished with the rarest of fruit, blueberries—all of it plated on fine white china edged in gold. To one side, a cup and saucer, a selection of teas, and a covered pot of hot water. Two little pots sit beside the plate, one with a red jam, and the other with—

'Is that real butter?' I cry, moving closer, incredulous, as he sets his burden onto the bed, his big, scarred hands incongruous against the tray's refined elegance.

Miro wakes and lifts her head. She licks her nose, tasting the sudden, mouth-watering array of scents. My rescuer doesn't answer. Instead he reaches down into one of the deep pockets along the side of his trousers and pulls out a little china bowl and a foil packet of cat food. He sets the bowl on the side table, beside a fortune's worth of single malt whiskies, and empties the pouch. The food stinks, but Miro brightens, eager, as he sets it in front of her. I watch, speechless, as he pets my cat with gentle strokes.

In his fatigues, the one who pulled me out of London looks like one of Zee's brutes. He's massive, solid, and ugly as sin. A badly-done tribal art tattoo covers half his face and neck, which is an improvement to the rough, pock-marked, broken-nosed visage he sports on the opposite side.

'It is,' he says, low, with a hint of an eastern European accent. It sounds Russian, but I'm not sure.

'What is?' I ask, unable to stop myself from staring at his hand sliding over Miro's bony spine, gentle, soft. I'm transfixed by how someone as rough-looking as him could be so tender.

'Real butter,' he answers, as Miro sits up and commences to clean her whiskers. 'Better now?' he says to her with a smile. I catch a glimpse of his teeth, broken and jagged. I look back at the tray, thinking how much his behaviour reminds me of Ryan. It makes me uneasy, like something isn't adding up. The sensation of having been held in my rescuer's arms, his lips against mine, whispering the name Ryan christened me with floods through me.

I suppress the feeling, uncomfortable. It was the sedation. I wanted my rescuer to be Ryan, so my drug-induced mind created it. The thought of this man kissing me like Ryan once did turns my stomach. He's the ugliest man I have ever seen, and that's saying something after being around Zee's men. I can't understand how he could be in a perfect place like this. Maybe he has qualities GC values. I eye him, surreptitious, wondering if he is an anomaly like me, a freak of nature. The thought makes me soften a little towards him. If he is, he'll be just as lonely as me. A tug of solidarity pulls at me.

The scent of toast beckons. I clamber over the bed and kneel in front of the tray, noticing for the first time I've been washed and dressed in a soft blue pair of pyjamas, about three sizes too big.

I glance up at my rescuer, catching him watching me under his heavy brow, his look unreadable. A closed book.

He clears his throat and turns his attention back to Miro. 'I washed and dressed you,' he says. He cuts a look at me, then away again. 'I know,' he mutters, acknowledging my dismay, 'but out of the others,' he continues, defensive, 'I was your best option.'

'Before you found me,' I say, low, 'I was raped. Twice.'

His jaw clenches. He gets up and goes to the window. His hands curl into fists and a wall of anger, raw, visceral, washes over me, mixed with something else, dark, heavy, and oppressive.

'He hurt you pretty bad,' he says, quiet, keeping his gaze on the brightening day. 'I gave you a shot of antibiotics, and another one for pain. You needed two stitches around your rectum. I did my best. Take it easy for the next few days. There's some tablets on the tray, they'll stop you from going until you heal.'

My heart tight with gratitude, I nod, even though he's still got his back to me. I neck the little green pills and pick up the fork and start on the eggs. They're seasoned with fragrant herbs, and fluffy as a cloud. They're the most gorgeous thing I have ever eaten. I wonder if he made it for me, the dark horse.

'Real eggs,' he says. I glance up at him, a forkful of the shimmering stuff halfway to my mouth. 'You ever have those before?' he asks.

I shake my head, thinking of the rubbery powdered eggs I'd eaten as a kid, and shovel them in, unable to stop from gorging myself, like Miro.

'Real eggs, and real butter,' I sigh as I finish. 'I must be in heaven.' I dip my knife into the pot of curled butter and spread a fat blob of it across the top slice of the toast—a thick, pale, creamy layer. I forgo the jam, longing to see what real butter tastes like. It's a little salty, rich, and smoother than the lurid yellow, slightly bitter chemical spread I used to get long ago, in another life. I gobble the buttered toast, greedy, and set to buttering the second slice, uncaring of the crumbs coating the duvet cover and my lap. Miro slips over and eats them, one by one, conscientious, missing nothing. I stroke her nose, thinking how old habits are going to die hard, even here in this place of plenty.

My rescuer turns his gaze back to the window and lets me eat. From the corner of my eye, I take a measure of him. He looks better from behind. He's built like a tank. Despite his loose fitting fatigues, the contours of his thick muscles show through the material. I imagine him taking on Zee in a fistfight. Zee wouldn't stand a chance. This guy could break him in two with his bare hands. I wish I could see it, but somehow I doubt my rescuer will ever be going back to London.

I finish the toast and set upon the fruit. The pale green melon melts over my tongue, soft, sweet and honeyed, followed by the slightly tart oranges, blood-red, and cold, making my teeth tingle. Finally, I attempt the blueberries, little plump, dense indigo wonders which pop in my mouth, starbursts of grainy, bitter, sugary-sharp joy.

My rescuer leaves his vigil by the window and pours the hot water into the cup for me. I peruse the artful little selection of tiny boxes: white vanilla, orange chai—whatever chai is—strawberry infusion, and earl grey. I open the box containing the strawberry tea. Inside, a little white muslin bag containing a fragrant mix of dried flowers, berries, and tea leaves. It's so pretty—so unlike anything I have touched in my entire life—sorrow slashes into me. All this time while Miro and I endured endless miseries in a dying city, others were living in a world like this, making tea from fancy boxes, taking their good fortune for granted. The blinding unfairness of it cuts a deep swathe through me.

I lower the bag into the water, acutely aware of my rescuer's nearness, his eyes on me, watching me. I keep my attention on my work, following the trails of inky red circling the bag as I swirl it around the cup, freeing its contents.

'You have a name?' I ask. 'Or do I just call you Soldier?'

He doesn't answer. I look up, wondering if maybe he's not allowed to tell me, like I wasn't allowed to tell Ryan my name. He's looking at me in a way that makes me feel strange. Like he knows me. All of me. Like he wants me to remember something. I wonder if I knew him as a kid, before I blabbed about the flood. I rack my memories, but nothing sticks out.

'It's Ryan,' he finally says, low.

I blink. 'You trying to tell me you were friends with someone who had the same name as you?' I ask, sharp, suspicion edging in, harder than ever. I wonder if he's trying to fool me. Trying to take Ryan's place. I bet Ryan really isn't his name.

He nods and lifts an eyebrow, a half-smile catches at his lips. 'Yeah. Guess that's just one of many things we had in common.'

I don't know what to say. It's hanging out there between us, like a giant, pink unicorn. We share a silent glance, and then he scoffs, relenting, letting us both off the hook. He gestures to himself. 'Yeah, I know,' he says, his Slavic accent thickening. 'Ryan was a hell of a lot better looking than this. Can't win them all.'

I smile, and sip the tea. It's gorgeous, like everything else. I decide I like this savage-looking, yet gentle Ryan, who knew my Ryan, too.

'Thank you for the breakfast,' I say, lifting my eyes to his. 'And for putting me back together again.'

He presses his lips together and nods, his expression shuttered. I get the feeling he's a complicated man. I scoot back to lean against the headboard, and sip again, the tea warms me, comforts me. For the first time in months, a feeling of security washes over me, reminding me of the nights Ryan held me in his arms as I slept.

'What did you do with my things?' I ask.

'Incinerated them,' he says, terse, his dark eyes on mine. 'I hope you don't mind.'

'I don't.' I sigh. 'I just wish I could have watched them burn.'

Ryan says nothing, though he doesn't meet my eyes. He picks up the empty cat food dish, sets it on the tray and leaves, the china rattling a little as he closes the door. I know he'll be back later to tell me what I'm really doing here, but for now, I watch the sun ascend into a cloudless sky and think of the enigmatic man washing my breakfast dishes, wondering who he really is, and why we are here, two misfits and a cat, hidden away in a beautiful, perfect place where there is still snow, and the sky is blue.

I lift my fist to knock on Blue's door, hesitating, holding back, despite knowing de Pommier's avatar is waiting in the dining room, a cup of coffee in front of her. Blue has only had one day to recover. It's not enough. Exhaustion seeps from her, even when she's sleeping. She needs rest, not this. Not whatever de Pommier has planned, which I sense from the general's tense demeanour isn't going to be nice. But what can I do to stop the wheels of Global Command? I'm vitally aware of my vulnerability, of what can be done to me. Akron was clear enough how easy it would be to remove my free will, and de Pommier made sure I understood she can shut me down with a single command.

I let out a heavy breath, and rap the door, light.

'Come in,' Blue answers, her voice muffled through the thick wood of the door.

I find her sitting on the bed, staring at the wall screen, dark, no longer offering a vista of a world which no longer exists. She's still dressed in Henrik's old pyjamas, her thin frame lost in its billows of excess cotton. She looks lost and vulnerable. I endure a primal urge to gather her in my arms, to shelter her from herself.

She tilts her head at the screen. 'So it wasn't real, after all.'

'It was, once. A long time ago. Before us.'

She presses down the folds of material bunched over her legs. Disappointment bleeds from her. 'I knew it was too good to be true.'

I take a step back and glance at the open door. 'I need you to come with me,' I say, fighting to keep my expression neutral, to hide my misgivings, worrying I'm leading her out of the frying pan into the fire. 'There is someone here to see you.'

Blue quirks an eyebrow, unimpressed. 'Let me guess. My new jailor?'

'You aren't a prisoner. You are being protected,' I say, and mean it, thinking of the half-dozen Elites added to the floor's security since her arrival. Blue looks up at me, dubious.

'She's the one who sent me to get you,' I say, pushing aside the memory of the berating I received for having disobeyed the general's orders; my future fate outlined in unequivocal, brutal detail: Do that again and I'll wipe your memory.

'Your rescue cost over a million dollars,' I offer when Blue remains silent.

'Hm,' Blue says, noncommittal. She gets to her feet, slow, swaying a little. I cross the distance between us, reaching out to catch her elbow. She pulls back, defensive. 'I would be flattered if it were me you went to all this effort for,' she says, tight, 'but you didn't, did you?'

I back up, giving her space. Her bitterness slams into me. Cold, hard waves.

She points to her head. 'You want what's in here,' she whispers, though her words are sharp, scathing. 'I just happen to be stuck with it.'

'Not me,' I say, low, as she slips past, careful not to touch me even though I am taking up most of the space.

'Maybe,' she says, her back to me, 'but what can you do? What can any of us do? They have all the power. We are things to them, tools. Nothing more.' She leaves me to stew in my futility. I smother a curse and catch up to her as she approaches the dining table, her eyes on de Pommier's avatar—ignoring the spectacular view of a Nordic coastline, overshadowed by storm clouds hulking over a roiling, black sea.

'Cassandra Vallis,' the general's avatar says, gesturing for Blue to take a seat. She glances up at me, and tilts her head for me to fall back to the kitchen's island. In front of it, I stand at ease, feigning disinterest—but I'm listening, using every aural enhancement they have granted me.

de Pommier's avatar takes a sip of coffee. She sets it down with a quiet thump.

'I owe you an apology,' she begins, quiet. 'Long overdue.'

Blue says nothing. She sits, rigid, in her chair, her hands in her lap, twisting her fingers together, her trepidation hidden from de Pommier's eyes, but not mine.

'I am the avatar of General de Pommier.' The general smiles and gestures to herself. 'Impressive, no? I wish I looked like this, but I do not.' Blue doesn't move. Distrust radiates from her, dense, palpable.

'You are in Alpha VII,' the avatar continues, brisk, discarding the friendly tack, 'in a secure location, protected by a team I trust with my life. I am . . . elsewhere. When you were a child,' the avatar says, soft, her French accent deepening, tainted with regret, 'I was not able to stop what was done to you. I tried. I fought every way I could, even to the temporary detriment of my career.'

Blue's fingers still.

'The man who ordered your 'tests' was and still is our Prime Minister.' The avatar takes a sip of coffee. Her dark eyes go straight to Blue's, direct, forthright. 'He does not know you are here. I have put my life on the line resuscitating Genesis I.' She turns the cup and trails her fingers over its handle. 'It is treason. But we are out of time, and he is doing nothing, except gathering his favourites around him, and furnishing an expensive hole for them to hide in while the rest of us must face our annihilation.' She scoffs. 'It is 2030 all over again, no?'

'What is?' Blue asks into the silence.

'Ah,' de Pommier's avatar says, 'of course. You were taken away at nine, well before the lessons regarding our history.' She picks up her coffee and goes to the wall screen, gazing at the snow squalls buffeting the towering pines. 'The restriction zone was meant to be a second chance for humanity, paid for by those who had devastated the planet for profit. But it seems we are a determined species, driven by our basest desires: Greed. Power. Selfishness.' She sips her coffee again. A quiet smile fleets across her lips, softening her profile. 'And then you came along, with your gift—a gift powerful men exploited and used for their own purposes, and at a terrible cost to you.'

Blue's hands leave her lap and slide up to the edge of the table. She clings to it, her knuckles white, as though she might float away if she lets go. 'You aren't going to hurt me,' she whispers, incredulous.

de Pommier's avatar cuts a look at Blue. 'The last thing I want to do is hurt you,' she retorts, dry. 'If the human race is going to survive, it needs you alive and well. Genesis I was started once we realised what you could do. It exists because of you.'

'What's Genesis I?' Blue asks, before continuing, dismissive, 'Anyway, what could I possibly do? I only see future catastrophes.'

The avatar leaves her spot before the wall screen and returns to the table. She catches me watching her. A faint look of satisfaction shimmers over her features, accompanied by a glimmer of something else. Triumph. My instincts prickle, wary. I look away, uneasy.

'No. There are other things you can do,' she says, putting her cup down and pushing it away.

Silence falls between them. de Pommier's avatar remains standing by the table. She folds her arms over her breasts and looks down at her half-empty coffee cup. Blue waits, still holding onto the table, tense, her chest rising and falling, her shallow breaths loud in the thickening quiet.

'Do you remember being given injections?' the avatar asks, her gaze moving over the table's wooden surface, pale in the wan, Nordic winter light.

Blue flinches. 'Yes,' she answers, low, suspicious.

'The injections,' the avatar says, terse, '—most of them—did nothing except make you suffer, but under the influence of a certain combination your abilities became . . . enhanced.'

'Enhanced,' Blue repeats, numb. She looks down at her hands, and lets go of the table. 'So you want—'

de Pommier's avatar cuts her off, 'Do you recall being asked to imagine, for example, a category five hurricane?'

Blue nods, her jaw tight.

'What you could do,' de Pommier's avatar says, quiet, 'no one has been able to explain, but while under the influence of certain psychotropic substances . . . whatever you imagined, happened.'

Horror gathers around Blue, enveloping her, bleeding from her. It spreads through the apartment and saturates me, visceral, unbearable. She looks up at the avatar, broken, anguished. 'For years I was asked to imagine such things.' She lunges from her chair. 'You made me kill people. Thousands of them. And animals, too. Innocent creatures,' she pants, frantic, 'forced to suffer horrible deaths. No. I can't—' she lets out a long, thin wail, her torment filling the room, clawing into my soul.

I move closer. The avatar shoots me a hard look. I stop but hold my ground, glaring at her, willing de Pommier to keep her mouth shut and not to tell Blue about the thousands of lives lost by Global Command during the years Blue was forced to serve the UFF. The avatar's attention slides back to Blue, who lifts a trembling hand to the back of the chair and stares, unseeing, at the stormy sea, at the waves breaking against the rocky coastline.

'I did not make you kill anything,' the avatar says, tight, 'I tried to stop it. Now, after all these years, I am finally in a position to stand against the one who did. Work with me and you will have the chance to avenge yourself.'

'No,' Blue moans, shaking her head. She staggers and bumps into me, blind, locked in misery. 'No more killing,' she pleads, low. 'Please. I don't want to.'

'Perhaps we should finish the story,' de Pommier's avatar continues, relentless, over Blue's suffering. 'One day, a technician made a mistake. Just one small change to the combination of your drug regime and instead of creating hurricanes, you brought rain. Good rain, healing rain. You generated life. It is a miracle, no?'

Blue quiets. She looks up, hollow, fragile. A caged animal. Her eyes shimmer, brilliant with tears. She sniffs and my heart clenches. More than anything I want to gather her up against me, to shield her from herself, from what she is, from what others have turned her into. Instead, I keep my hands at my sides and force myself to let her be, to suffer with her in silence.

'So,' the avatar says, soft, 'not only can you destroy, but you can regenerate. You are a wonder. A gift sent on the brink of our extinction, who has somehow managed to survive the brutality of powerful men on both sides of the wall.' She flashes an enigmatic look at me. 'Who is being given a second chance because of the love of Capitaine Maddox, who had to die, so we could find you again. It is beautiful, no? Tragic, but beautiful.'

Blue catches her breath at my name. de Pommier sits and folds her hands together, exuding patience. I eye her. She's clever, slipping in the reason Blue is here and not dying a slow death at The Jackpot.

Ten minutes slide past as Blue processes the enormity of what she's been told. She's only a hair's breath away from me, close enough for me to feel her tremors. She stares at the wall screen, her eyes following the rise and fall of the trees' boughs as they shudder in the wind, trapped in their silent dance, lost to another time.

'It's because of Ryan I'm here?' she finally asks, faint, without taking her eyes from the view.

'It is,' de Pommier's avatar replies, soft. 'His memories led us to you.'

A shiver ripples through Blue. Her gaze drops to the swell and crash of the dark sea slamming itself into the rocks.

'When are you going to tell me what Genesis I is?' she asks.

de Pommier looks up. 'It is a project I started in 2070, to give one thousand people a new life on Mars until Earth heals. When you vanished in 2073, everyone assumed you were dead. However, I managed to keep G-I going until the Prime Minister shut it down in favour of Genesis II in 2078.' The corners of the avatar's mouth turn downward, dismissive. 'He dug a hole 2.4km in the ground, and filled it with cryogenic pods made to last a thousand years, reserved for him and his cronies on Alpha VII, sold for exorbitant prices, all of it going into his pockets.' She eyes the storm, unseeing, disgust seeping from her. 'The arrogant fool believes the world will have recovered in a mere thousand years. But the scientists know better. They estimate it will take at least four thousand years before Earth will be habitable again. Genesis II will do nothing except delay the inevitable.'

'Mars,' Blue repeats, dull, after a pregnant silence. 'And you need me to—?'

'Terraform it,' the avatar answers, blunt.

Blue blinks. She scoffs. 'You're crazy.'

'Clearly not the entire planet,' de Pommier admits, dry. 'The descent shuttles will be repurposed into habitats. Printers will create the parts needed to construct a dome one kilometre in circumference. Once the dome is erected, molecular scrubbers will work to rebalance the atmospheric gases from carbon dioxide to nitrogen and oxygen, and then you're up. The terraforming will unfold in controlled stages until the dome's ecology becomes self-sustaining. Then we do it all again, piece by piece, dome by dome until—'

'No,' Blue says, flat. 'Not interested.'

'Hm,' de Pommier says. She drums her fingers on the table. 'And if I had the power to return Capitaine Maddox to you?'

I stiffen, defensive. So that's what it was—her look of triumph. I'm her trump card. I shake my head at her, desperate, willing her to stop. She ignores me.

She's got Blue's full attention now. 'I thought he was dead,' Blue whispers. Hope slams through her, awakening her—a flower opening its petals to the light, after a long, dark night.

'He's right behind you,' de Pommier murmurs.

Blue turns, desperation shearing through her. She looks past me, her eyes bright, raking over the empty apartment, searching the kitchen and living room.

Blue looks back, confused. 'I don't—'

de Pommier's avatar nods at me. 'He's looking right at you.'

Blue blinks. She looks up at me, raw, frightened. 'Ryan?' she breathes, her expression screaming denial, willing it not to be so.

I nod, my heart aching. 'What's left of me.'

Her face crumples. The light in her eyes dies. 'What do you mean,' she finally manages, stricken, 'what's left of you?' Her eyes move over my ugly face, searching for me, finding nothing. A tear slides free. I resist the urge to brush it away.

'He's a cybernetic organism,' de Pommier's avatar answers, coming to join us. 'Half-man, half-machine. The first of his kind. His body was too damaged to save, but we were able to transfer his consciousness. We brought him back, at great expense. However, if necessary, we have the power to make him forget you—' she claps her hands together, startling Blue, 'in a heartbeat.'

I shoot the avatar a baleful look, hating de Pommier so much I can taste it. It takes every shred of my will not to lunge at her avatar and tear it apart with my bare hands. She can say what she wants about the Prime Minister but in my eyes, she's just the same. A fucking egomaniacal despot.

Blue nods. 'I see,' she says, quiet, defeated. She leaves us, her steps unsteady. By the mirrored wall, she pauses, her reflection in it bleak, empty. 'When do we leave?'

de Pommier smiles, satisfaction oozing from her. 'Mars nears its minimum in just under twelve months. In the meantime, we need to experiment with your dosages, to see if there is any way we can maximise your abilities.'

Blue doesn't answer. She walks away, the quiet click of her bedroom door coming to, shutting me out, tears me apart.

I turn to confront de Pommier, but the droid's eyes are blank. The general is already gone, though her smile lingers on.