The interior of the submarine-jet hissed, a cold, clinical sound that reminded Arkan of a respirator. Outside the viewport, the sapphire glow of the Sunken Garden was fading into a deep, bruised purple. Maya sat curled on the floor, her hands still clutching the ragged hem of her doctor's coat, staring at the floor with eyes that looked a thousand years old. Her fingers periodically grazed her belly, a gesture of terror more than maternity.
"We’re away," Arkan said, his voice flat and vibrating with a strange, harmonic frequency. He didn't look at them. His hands moved over the touch-sensitive HUD, adjusting the pitch of the silent propulsion system. His left arm was still glowing, a faint pulse that timed perfectly with the blue dashboard lights.
"Where are we, Arkan? For real this time
