The metallic scent of the telegraph key lingered on my fingertips as I froze, one hand still resting on the blood-stained desk. The machine sputtered weakly behind me, its light flickering like a dying star. The voice was calm, sharp, definitive.
"Step away from the machine."
I turned slowly.
Four soldiers stood before me, guns raised. Their uniforms bore the same insignia I'd seen on the aircraft that blanketed the town in fire and death. Ash clung to their boots and shoulders, mixing with the grime of a city razed. I raised my right hand—my only hand now—and stepped back from the desk, the Morse key still humming behind me like a heartbeat.
The lead soldier's eyes scanned me clinically. He had the air of a man who had executed more orders than questions. One of the others snorted.
"You really thought this pile of junk could save you?"
