Thomas felt a surge of adrenaline so potent it made his fingertips tremble. He had to clench his fists to hide the excitement; he didn't want Lucy—or anyone else—to see the hunger in his eyes.
To ground himself, he pivoted his focus back to the administrative reality of their situation: Trevor's reports.
For the past week, Trevor had been shouting into a void. His messages, sent via official couriers and the "telegram" service of Tork, had been a litany of frustrations. The investigation was a graveyard of dead ends. Despite Trevor's experience and the resources of the field team, every lead had evaporated the moment they touched it.
They had scoured the scorched earth of the crash site. They had interviewed the traumatised survivors who were still recovering in Retto's makeshift clinics. They had even ventured into the dangerous wilderness surrounding the tracks, questioning the hermits and dwellers who lived on the fringes of civilisation.
Nothing.
