“Aye.”
Two red Halckons, a head taller than most of the crowd, are making their way toward us. The last Halckons we met, other than Jahzara Zedd’s evil face on our vids this morning, were the ones we slew on the way into town.
Xzavic and I draw our swords as we keep walking.
“Titan!” One of them calls. “Titan!”
When we stop and turn, we almost get trampled by the crowd.
“We have intel!”
This is interesting. Is this a trick to get close enough to kill us? Are they going to give us misinformation?
They hold their hands up “don’t shoot” style and say, “We wear red. We came to help.”
After flanking us, the one on my right says, “We should keep walking.”
As we keep pace with the crowd, he pulls out a computer tablet, hands it to me, and shows us where our opponents are.
“TMN has been broadcasting from outside your opponents’ hiding places. We’ve caught snatches of pictures outside their windows and used visual clues to triangulate their location.”
I’m holding the pad where both Xzavic and I can see it. The male reaches over me and his thick, red finger jabs at the three locations on the screen.
“So the network was telling the truth? Trent and Scurge are together?” Xzavic asks.
“All their interviews have been together. That’s how they’re still alive. They’ve fought many foes as a team. No one knows what’s going to happen if they’re the last two standing.”
His words ring in my ears. I imagine there’s been the same speculation about Xzavic and me. He must realize how his words affected me, because he mumbles, “Sorry.” Then says, “If we keep on our current route, you’re going to reach those two first. Is that your plan?”
“What do you think?” I ask Xzavic.
“Perhaps. Where would you suggest we set up?”
I’m still not sure we should trust these two males. Their intel could be faulty, or it could be outright lies. But really, we’ve got no better options.
Their suggestions sound valid, so we begin to implement them.
Soon, Xzavic and I are wearing the Marentine equivalent of baseball caps—red, of course. When we get closer to our destination, we fade toward the middle of the pack. I jump a few times to get a good look behind us. I’m no judge of these things, but I think there are thousands of people. It’s a sea of red. And we’re right in the middle of it.
When the time is right, a male almost Xzavic’s height, wearing a tight red shirt cut in the exact same way his shirt is cut, approaches on Xzavic’s left. I’m not sure what color his skin is, but the exposed areas have been dyed blue.
The two males bump, slyly exchange hats and places, and we surge forward with the crowd. It suddenly strikes me that this male is risking his life to help us. He’s now the target.
“Thank you. You might be saving our lives, but you’re risking your own,” I say.
“It’s time,” he says, nodding vigorously as he quotes the rebellion’s motto. “Slavery and the abuses of the rich upon the poor have to stop. I’m willing to take this risk and many more.”
I look into his eyes for the first time. He’s young. Perhaps barely twenty. I’m awed by the look of raw passion on his face. In all my life, I never felt that fervid about anything. I do now.
A female about my size approaches on my right. Her skin is only slightly browner than mine, although she’s got interesting ridges on her forehead and cheekbones. At a distance, though, our frames are the same. We exchange hats. I slow and let the crowd surge ahead of us.
Xzavic grabs my upper arm in his meaty palm and tugs me to the edge of the moving crowd, then we slip out and hunker in an abandoned doorway.
While the mob passes by, we change out of our red shirts and into pale blue ones the Halckons handed us. I shake my head, thinking it would be a shame if they were in league with Zedd or one of our other enemies. Our clothes or caps could carry tracking devices, although we’re already wearing them around our necks.
I console myself with the thought that without their help, we’d have no better plan, so I decide to proceed.
“Our destination is one block up,” Xzavic says after consulting the pad the Halckon gave us.