Elsewhere,
Ellarine and her group had regrouped in the officer compound's secured wing.
She counted heads automatically: Bolt, Marcus, and some others, she couldn't remember their names.
Six, she calculated. Started with nine when we split from Bright's group.
There was three missing. Either dead, separated, or captured. The reality of Clear Light's Eve claiming their share.
"We should regroup with the others," Bolt suggested, the easy confidence in his voice matching the slight pompadour that seemed permanently fixed in place—a byproduct of his selection as an Independent, or perhaps just the kind of man he was.
"No," Ellarine said, her voice clipped and final. "We hold here."
