Dappled sunlight filtered through the dense Appalachian foliage, casting shifting patterns on the worn path as Miria walked in silence. Her escort -- aka the totally unnecessary bodyguard her absentee father had insisted on -- kept a vigilant watch, his sharp eyes flicking between the trees and the communications device strapped to his wrist. For him, this was a mission.

For Miria, it was a hike to her brother's graduation ceremony: a straightforward journey to a ceremony she had couldn't bring herself to want to attend, even though she knew she should.

Neither of her parents were going to make it. No matter how unenthusiastic she was about leaving the Preserves and braving the corrupt cities controlled by her father's beloved Technocracy, Connor deserved to have some family present for the celebration.

Born critically ill, his life had been saved by post-birth genetic editing. He was a living testament to the miraculous and terrible technology their father endorsed, the recipient of a gift that came with its own burden of 'advantages.' Connor hadn't had that choice, not if he was to survive, but Miria couldn’t help but feel a sense of betrayal, of loss even, as she prepared to watch her brother venture further down the path their father had blazed. As if the technological interventions weren't enough, he was more graduating from one of the world's most elite academies, pioneering cyborg technology and striving to further blur the line between man and machine.

Years of heated debates, of clashes in ideology, all underscored the growing chasm between them. And yet, beneath her resentment lay a powerful vein of sisterly pride and affection and guilt.

Unlike Connor, she'd stayed with their mother; a repository of the past, an archivist who had brought the tales of the region’s deep history alive for young Miria. As an apprentice, Miria had listened, rapt, to stories of the Mid-Atlantic before the world’s most recent and most severe struggle with climate change, of a vibrant biosphere teeming with creatures now extinct or radically altered.

Miria’s father, chief of security for the global technocracy, was a cold and distant figure in her memories, their shared moments overshadowed by his obsession with the future and the politics of progress. She had been raised too steeped in tradition to reject him from her heart, or to wish him dead, for all it made her feel like a hypocrite.

If it were up to him, she wouldn't just have an overbred, overmuscled, overarmed guard -- she'd have been teleported from her home straight to the Academy, and damn the expense both financial and ecological. Demetrius was the compromise, and she tried not to blame him for being caught in the middle of her family drama.

"Do you have any family?" she asked abruptly, then rolled her eyes at herself. "I mean, I know you guys are all genetically engineered, but still. Parents? Siblings?"

Demetrius glanced at her, his hyperalert gaze softening for a moment. "Families are complex, Miria. Especially when the world's changing so fast."

Miria grimaced. The world was indeed changing fast, had been changing fast for centuries. Too fast for her to feel entirely comfortable with humanity's prospects. But change, she knew, was the one constant in life. Her mother always said that the worst part of growing up seemed to be learning how to navigate the future as well.

Even so, she couldn't help but resent any moment her father seemed to be right.

"Either way, we're nearly to the transport hub." Demetrius’s voice was steady, though he cast a cautious glance over his shoulder. They were traveling on foot, following the old C&O Canal towpath that wound its way to the heart of the much-reduced remnants of the riverside city once known as Washington DC. “And good thing too; it’ll be too dark to see in another hour or two.”

Miria nodded, her eyes wide and attentive. She was young, barely twenty, with a serious face that bore an uncanny resemblance to her father, the formidable General Argyle. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a practical braid, and the scattered evening light caught the ink stains on her fingers, testament to her hours spent in the archive rooms of the Appalachian preserve.

Suddenly, a rustling noise interrupted their conversation. “Don't move, Miria,” he ordered, his gaze focused toward the noise as he reached toward his holster. “We've got company.”

She, at least, was not in the habit of assuming company on the trail as something to be feared. "So? Oh, don’t be ridic—" The bark of an old-fashioned gun cut her off.

From the dense woods flanking the path, a group of figures emerged: a motley group of five individuals, each bearing the rough, weather-worn look of sustainable hunters. They wore mismatched camouflage outfits, patched together from who-knew-what sources. Their outfits were stained with sweat, dirt, and the evidence of forest living, creating an impression of determined, rugged survivalism. Their fluid, silent movements mirrored predators, their focused expressions indicating purpose.

Their leader, a tall man with shoulder-length braided chestnut hair, held an old bolt-action rifle with seasoned ease. His stern face bore lines of hard living, his green eyes predatory. He was flanked by two men, one muscular with sun-baked skin and close-shorn hair, the other lean with unruly blond hair and darting blue eyes. Their weapons, a longbow and a slingshot, were held with experienced grips. The last two, women, contrasted one another. One, tall and willowy, blended with the trees, a quiver of arrows on her back and a crossbow in hand. The other, shorter and stockier with fiery red hair, wielded a gleaming machete.

Someone else, someone more foolish or less educated than Miria — someone who had spent their entire life under the thumb of the Technocracy’s authority — might have looked at those weapons and thought their wielders hopelessly outclassed, but Miria knew her history, knew that it wasn’t inherent inferiority that had led those weapons to be considered antiques, but rather the difficulty of mastery. It took a generation to get truly good with a longbow, and this man had the telltale musculature of someone who had taken the time to learn.

Not surprising; life in the preserves appealed to the sort of men willing to do just that. It was one of the reasons she loved it here.

The arrows just weren’t usually pointed at her. This wasn't an accidental encounter—it was a strategic, desperate attack. They were hunters turned soldiers — rebels — a chilling sight reflecting troubled times she hadn’t ever expected to come to life outside teatime discussions between her mother’s colleagues.

Demetrius, his body honed from years of Peacekeeper training, reacted swiftly to the threat. He pulled Miria behind him, his hand reaching for the stun gun fastened on his belt.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

“Give us the girl and things will stay bloodless.” There was an ironic tilt to the leader’s lips that told Miria he was posturing; not even the most idiotic of kidnappers would think a Peacekeeper would be swayed by threats. They were the Technocracy’s most loyal shock troops and infiltrators, born and bred and trained their whole lives to serve… which was why her father had asked Demetrius to her escort her.

She hated it when he was vindicated. The idea that anyone would want to use her for leverage against either of her parents was insane; barely anyone even knew who her father even was and even if they had somehow found out, how could any of the Retrogressives — who else could they be? — believe he’d sacrifice anything of his actual goals for her safety? Over twenty years, she could count on one hand the number of times he’d so much as bothered to visit her in person.

Before she could make sense of the situation well enough to reply, the sharp report of an black powder gun erupted from the underbrush. The bullet whistled past them, dangerously close. Miria felt the rush of its passage, a shockwave of sound and fury that tore through the morning stillness. Fear, sudden and visceral, seized her heart.

Demetrius moved instantly, a blur of precision and power. His body interposed itself between her and the oncoming danger, a human shield against the bullets. His hand darted to his side, drawing out a sidearm too small to look threatening and doubly dangerous because of it.

The second shot echoed through the air, closer this time. A guttural curse escaped Demetrius' lips as he shoved Miria behind him, pushing her down onto the dirt path. He didn't need to say anything. The severity of the situation was as clear as the terror clutching at her heart.

With another incoming round, he world became a blur of movement and color. She caught glimpses of rebels darting through the undergrowth, heard the terrifying whizzing of bullets, the pulse-pounding rhythm of her heart in her ears.

Instinct took over. Fear melded with anger and a deep-rooted determination. She fought back, struggling against his iron grip. When she tried to speak, he silenced her with his hand and she struggled all the more. His eyes met hers, filled with stern determination. He was trying to protect her, even if the adrenaline pouring through her thought him a threat, understandably given how he had hauled her like a ragdoll.

Slowly, she stilled, and nodded weakly, embarrassment sparking with anger — if he hadn’t grabbed her, she could have hidden herself behind the thick trunk of a nearby tree. She could feel the strength of his Peacekeeper-bred muscles as he finished maneuvering her behind cover. His attention quickly snapped back to the skirmish unfolding. A hail of bullets tore through the foliage, revealing the shadowy figures of the rebels emerging from the tree line. Their faces were grim, their intentions deadly clear. They had come prepared for a fight.

Demetrius’ presence, which even she hadn’t known about until yesterday, wasn’t a surprise for this group.

The Peacekeeper returned fire, his weapon buzzing as it unleashed a beam of something towards her prospective kidnappers. It lit up the undergrowth, its neon hue illuminating the approaching rebels. One of them screamed, collapsing as the beam found its mark.

Miria's heart pounded like a dreamer-drum, her thoughts a whirl of fear and indignation. She could feel the cool bark of the tree against her back, the rough earth under her, the harsh grip of Demetrius as he held her down. The tang of fear filled her mouth, its icy tendrils wrapping around her heart.

Then, suddenly, the world seemed to tilt. An explosion erupted from the undergrowth, the force of it sending a shower of dirt and debris into the air. Demetrius shielded her from the blast, his body thrown against hers, his weight crushing and comforting at once. "Stay down and stay quiet," he hissed, his voice barely audible above the ringing in her ears.

Miria was no stranger to this wilderness; she’d spent her whole life here, unlike Demetrius; the Peacekeepers were a global force, and not welcome in the Preserves under ordinary circumstances. "Let me help. You can't take them all alone," she pleaded, her hands balling into fists. “You don’t know the terrain.”

His lips went crooked, his grip on her shoulder tightening. "Your safety is my priority, Miria, and I don’t have time to explain. You need to trust me."

The words echoed in her mind, frustration brewing within her. Trust him? She trusted him to follow his orders — but to know the land? Besides, she was not a hothouse flower destined to be preserved in glass. She was an archivist; a custodian of Appalachian history — a forester and a conservationist. She knew these woods better than he did — albeit probably not better than their attackers.

However, before she could protest, Demetrius moved like a shadow, disappearing into the woods, and Miria had to decide: stay or go? What exactly did she think she, weaponless, at the tail end of a long hike, could do against five well-prepared rebels in a part of the forest they undoubtedly knew better than she, even if she was more familiar with the region than Demetrius?

Before she had decided whether to risk her own disappearing act into the woods, Demetrius returned with blood on his cheek and a small device in his hand. “We need to go.”

“Sure,” Miria said numbly. “How?”

“Illegal science,” he said grimly. “But I wouldn’t have been given it if I wasn’t expected to use it in an emergency.”

Demetrius grabbed her hand before she could pull away, then pressed a button on the teleporter; it had to be, though the smallest she’d ever heard of was the size of a cow, and banned within the Preserves besides. Before she could protest, the trees around them blinked out of existence. When the world coalesced again, the air was noon-bright and heavy rapids surrounded her on all sides of a small island with a single, barren tree.

"Where are we?" Miria asked, her voice squeaking with confusion.

Demetrius shrugged, staring at his empty hand. "Not where we were supposed to be. That teleporter was meant to take us to the closest telecradle; we should be in Old DC." He glanced around, his Peacekeeper training kicking in, assessing the environment for potential threats. "This could be anywhere from northern Germany to New Zealand."

"But that's impossible," Miria whispered, her mind racing as she tried to piece together what had happened.

"Quite impossible indeed," Demetrius agreed. "And yet, here we are."

“That’s the trouble with experimental technology,” Miria said, trying not to glare.

“Better lost than dead,” Demetrius said. He sighed, pulling himself to his full height, his gaze sweeping over the river. "Welcome to... wherever this is, Miria, but first things first. We need to establish contact with headquarters."

She had never admired Demetrius's efficiency, thinking it cold and a little inhuman, but she couldn’t deny his ability to remain calm in the face of crisis. But as he frowned, a sense of unease blossomed in her gut. Miria wished she could have the satisfaction of watching him work, but Peacekeeper communications gear was all internal; like her brother Connor, Demetrius was fundamentally a cyborg, bound unconscionably close to the technology that had nearly destroyed their planet during the Climate Crisis.

She turned her attention to their surroundings, taking in the unusual flora. There was something off about this river, something that went beyond their unexpected teleportation. The nearby bank bore no resemblance to the Appalachian rivers she was used to different, and the curlique plants reminded her more of a Dr. Seuss painting than anything she’d ever seen in a natural history book.

"Impossible," she whispered, a sense of horror creeping into her voice.

"What is?" Demetrius asked, looking up from his seemingly futile attempts to arrange a rescue.

Perched on a nearby branch was a creature that was unlike anything she'd ever seen. It looked like a lizard on fire, but with thick fur instead of flames; she might have thought little of it if it weren’t for the scales. Or the determined way it chewed on a luminescent orb, like an antique inksketch of a will-o'-the-wisp. Its toothless jaws produced small bursts of flame that ignited the orb but didn't seem to harm the creature. Or maybe the little ball of light was defending itself with fire, which the lizard ignored.

A shiver ran down Miria's spine as she watched the creature, an uneasy sense of wonder settling in her stomach. "Demetrius," she said quietly, "I don't think we're in Germany."

He followed her gaze to the creature and then back to her, his expression hardening. "Then where the hell are we, Miria?"

"I don't know," she said, her gaze never leaving the strange creature. "But we're certainly not on the Earth we know."