First they had to get to Defence Command, past the last few stumbling trolls, (“Roses,” Reuben whispered, “remake them.”), and then they had to actually turn the self-destruct off, which should have just taken the codes and palm locks of the two Caelestians. Their input did turn off the sirens and flashing warnings, but didn’t stop the thrusters from carrying them sunward. Fixing that involved dragging Eskil down from the Juniper, frantic consultations with several newly awoken engineers, the commandeering of the Juniper’s shuttle, and finally Eskil slamming his palm against the surviving diamond edge of the windowsill and snapping, “Infect me, then, if it’s going to take magic!” Reuben had thought that might be the end, that moment of sheer relief when the stars above them, just starting to show through the dusk, started to move in the opposite direction. But Vairya was still conjuring his people out of rosewood and memory, and not all of the transitions were flawless.
