Scene 1. Second Hand
03:15.
Inside Ian's brain, a second hand ticked. Not a real sound. He wore no watch. Didn't need one. Ian's body was the watch. Calculate the heart's beat count against stride intervals against the cycle of breathing, and you get the time. Margin of error: under three minutes. That was enough.
'Time remaining: 45 minutes.'
The forest was ending. The gaps between trees widened. Trunks thinned. Roots gripped gravel instead of soil. Less dirt, more stone. The forest's edge.
Behind him, the group's breathing. One set fewer. Six. Six engines running on their last fumes. Only Maria's breath was uneven. Uneven but unceasing. The remaining four breathed evenly but slowly. Slow breaths that resembled the breathing just before it stops.
Ian's brain received those breaths. Received and tagged. 'Operational time remaining: under 30 minutes.' Shorter than forty-five. The possibility that parts would stop before time did.
Beyond them, the ground dropped away.
A gorge.
Ian's feet stood at the edge. Below his toes, darkness gaped. No bottom visible. He nudged a stone off the lip. Four seconds before the sound returned. He back-calculated the depth. A depth that kills on impact. Not a depth human bone could survive. Ian's bone included.
The far side of the gorge was visible. Distance: roughly thirty meters. Forest on that side too. Beyond that forest would be the boundary of the decommissioned industrial zone that Ian remembered. Rusted containers stacked high, rebar jutting skyward like bone. A zone the Empire's search units didn't like operating in. Cross the boundary, and he'd be outside the Purification Corps' initial search radius. If there was time.
'Route 1: Detour south along the gorge. Estimated time: 2 hours. Not viable. Purification Corps arrives at 04:00.''Route 2: Cross the gorge in a straight line. Estimated time: 15 minutes. Problem: no means of crossing.'
Wind rose from below. Wind blowing up from the gorge floor. Cold. Not cold like a blade—cold like the water the blade had been dipped in. It swept Ian's face, wrapped his neck, slipped behind his ears. The wind stirred the boy's hair. From the forehead of the boy sleeping against Ian's shoulder, a low-grade fever radiated. The cold wind and the boy's fever met at Ian's neck. Cold wrapping heat, heat melting cold, and at that boundary the phantom pain did not stir. The painkiller was running.
'03:17. Time remaining: 43 minutes.'
The second hand ticked. Inside Ian's brain. Tok. Tok. Tok. A sound that did not stop. Invisible hounds closing one step with every second. Things in white combat uniforms. Things without faces. The scar on the left side of his back pulled, very faintly. The weight of things that had not yet arrived was loading onto Ian's back through time.
Ian's gaze tracked left along the gorge. Something was visible in the darkness. A structure spanning both sides. The outline of metal, faintly defined. A pipeline. Industrial. Abandoned. Rust had covered the surface in red. At a joint where bolts had loosened, the pipe sagged slightly. Not a living structure. Dead but not yet collapsed. A corpse still standing.
Ian's brain received it. Received and placed it on the grid. Crossing means for Route 2. Possibility. Verification required.
'03:20. Time remaining: 40 minutes.'
Ian's feet moved toward it.
Scene 2. Deficit
The pipeline was dead.
An industrial pipe one and a half meters in diameter spanned the gorge. Once it had carried something. The residue of whatever it had been—oil or wastewater—had hardened into black stains on the surface. A metal-grate walkway had been welded to the top. For inspections, probably. A walkway where workers once walked to check the pipe's condition. Now walked by no one. Rust had eaten through the grating, punching holes. The railing had half-collapsed. What remained was thin enough to snap under a hand's grip.
Ian's foot stepped onto the grating's start point.
Creeeak.
Rusted steel screamed. Under Ian's weight, the grating bowed downward. At the loosened joint, the sound of metal grinding on metal. Ian's sole read the vibration. Reading the residual tensile strength of the steel. Step on it and you know. The line between the weight it can hold and the weight that breaks it.
'Ian solo: viable. Ian + equipment (boy): approaching limit.'
He walked three more steps. To the far side of the severed section. The grating on that side was intact. Bolts still holding. No sound when he stepped. If he could clear the severed two meters, the rest was walkable. Ian came back. To this side of the break. Each step on the grating sent another creeak through the darkness. That sound was reaching the group. Their breathing stopped and restarted, stopped and restarted.
He looked back. The group stood at the gorge's edge. Maria in front. The other four behind Maria. In the darkness, five silhouettes watching Ian. Ian standing on the pipeline. Ian standing at the edge of the severed grating. The abyss open behind Ian. The severed section: roughly two meters. Through that gap, the gorge's darkness stared up. Bottomless darkness breathing through a two-meter slit. Wind rose from that slit. It swept the pipe's surface, making a long sheeee. A dead pipe crying in the wind.
Ian stopped.
'Jumpable distance: 2 meters. Ian solo: viable. Ian + load (boy): viable. Residual strength of grating on landing: unknown. Fall risk: medium.'
Without the boy, he would have jumped. With the boy, jumping was still possible. But whether the grating would hold on landing was unknowable. Fall while carrying the boy, and it's over. Jumping was not the answer. A different answer was needed.
He looked back. The group stood at the gorge's edge. Maria in front. The other four behind Maria. In the darkness, five silhouettes watching Ian.
Ian looked down at the edge of the severed grating. Both broken ends drooped downward. Between them, the bare surface of the pipe was exposed. Rusted pipe. Too smooth and round to walk across. He needed a wedge. Something to fill the gap. Something to bridge the two broken ends and distribute the load.
Ian's gaze returned to the group.
He looked at their silhouettes. Five. Minus Maria, four. Of those four—the slowest. The one who fell most often. The one whose breathing was roughest. Ian's brain classified automatically. By efficiency. By remaining durability.
Ian's mouth opened.
"Forty-five minutes left."
That was all. He did not say cross. He did not say hurry. He stated the time. Forty-five minutes. That number was the same as a knife pressed to the group's spine. What comes after forty-five minutes, the group did not know. Did not need to know. The fact that Ian had stated a time was itself the cliff edge.
Maria's eyes read Ian's gaze. Ian had looked at the severed grating. Ian had looked at the group. Maria tracked the trajectory of that gaze. Grating. Group. Grating. Group. The gaze had traveled back and forth in under a second. Within that second, Maria's brain produced the answer. Something is broken. Something is needed to fill it. The filler is right here. The answer is where Ian's gaze pointed. It was always so. Where Ian's gaze pointed, there was a path. In the minefield. In the forest. Now.
Maria turned.
Toward the group.
Scene 3. Meat
Maria's hand seized the man's arm.
The man standing at the very back. The slowest man. The man whose breathing was roughest. Maria's hand gripped his forearm. The grip was strong. Maria was not large. But a hand loaded with faith had nothing to do with muscle mass.
The man was dragged. Onto the pipeline. Over the rusted grating. As he was dragged, the man's feet trod the mesh. Creeak. Creeak. Each time the steel cried, the man's legs shook. His knees tried to buckle. Maria's hand did not release the forearm. Release and the man collapses. Collapse and time passes. Time passes and the forty-five minutes shrink.
The man's eyes looked down. At the darkness visible through the grating. The bottomless darkness. The man's mouth opened.
"No—"
Maria's hand clamped over the man's mouth. The clamping hand was firm. Maria's mouth went beside the man's ear.
"Know that this is an honor."
A whisper. The cadence of prayer. The timbre of a blessing. Killing words descending in the shape of benediction.
Maria pushed the man to the edge of the severed grating. The man's hands seized Maria's arm. Tried to shove her away. Maria's hand did not come off. A body smaller than the man's. Lighter than the man's. And still Maria's hand did not come off. Because what loaded the hand was not muscle. Because it was a hand loaded with faith. Because placing the man where Ian's gaze had pointed was Maria's prayer.
The man's knees folded. Not folded—buckled. Maria's hand pressed the man's back. Downward. Onto the bare surface of the pipe. Into the gap between the two broken ends of grating. The man's body was wedged into the empty space.
A scream came.
Short. Maria's hand covered the mouth again. The man's back was pressed against the pipe's curved surface. The broken edges of grating on both sides dug into the man's flanks. The rusted steel's sharp ends punched through fabric and touched flesh. The man's body bucked once, hard. Maria's knee climbed onto the man's back. Weight bore down. The man's body was pinned to the pipe.
A wedge had been driven. A wedge made of a human body. The two severed ends of grating were connected with the man's body between them. Steel. Flesh. Steel. That was the bridge.
Ian walked.
The first step trod the grating. Ian's weight settled. The steel cried. The second step trod the grating's edge. The third step.
The third step trod something else.
Not steel. Not rigid. Rigid and then yielding. Yielding and then holding. The sensation of bone flexing under Ian's sole, taking the load, then settling into place. Over the bone, flesh. Over the flesh, clothing. Over the clothing, Ian's foot. Over the foot, Ian's body. In his arms, the boy.
Ian's brain calculated the load.
'Contact area: full sole. Load distribution: left 55%, right 45%. Boy's weight loaded right, compensate to left foot. Center of gravity shift: 20 degrees forward.'
Something beneath him made a sound. Not a sound. Breath. Breath forced from the pinned man's mouth. Maria's hand was covering it, so no sound escaped. Only air leaked. The sound of breath escaping rose from beneath Ian's foot. What Ian's foot was stepping on was breathing. Was alive.
Ian's foot moved to the next step.
The fourth step trod steel again. Hard. Cold. Constant. The anomalous load feedback of the third step vanished. The give of bone and flesh was gone, and the solidity of metal returned. Ian's stride reset to normal. As though nothing had happened.
Fifth. Sixth. Seventh.
Ian crossed the severed section. Walked the intact grating on the far side. The end of the pipeline came into view. The gorge's opposite edge drew near.
Behind him, Maria held position with her knee on the man's back. The remaining lower-sector residents began to cross one by one, stepping over him. The first. A foot over the man's back hesitated. The foot paused in midair. Maria's gaze rose. That gaze alone brought the foot down. Stepped. Crossed.
Two. Three. With each step, the man's back sank. Sank and held. Held and sank again. Bone was enduring the repetition. With each step, the breath forced from the man's mouth was blocked by Maria's palm, foaming and bursting. How much longer he could hold was not important. He only needed to hold until everyone crossed.
Maria was last. Maria's knee left the man's back. The moment the knee lifted, the man's body twisted once. The compressed, trampled, crushed body moved one final time. Maria's foot stepped on the man's body and crossed. Maria's weight was light. The man's body barely sank. Still, it was stepped on. The sensation of being stepped on would have traveled through the man's back. The last sensation of being stepped on.
The strength left the man's body. With nothing pressing down, the man's body began to slide off the pipe. Slowly. Along the curved surface. Fingers tried to catch the grating's edge. The rusted steel crumbled beneath them. Could not hold. The body tilted. Listed along the pipe's curve to one side. Darkness ate the man. Without a sound.
Four seconds later, there was still no sound.
Ian did not look back.
'Remaining personnel: 6. 03:42.'
Scene 4. White
03:58.
Ian stood at the gorge's far edge. Solid earth beneath his feet. Not grating. Not pipe. Not bone. Earth.
The boy slept against Ian's shoulder. A low fever touching his neck. The phantom pain sleeping. The painkiller running. Ian's stride stable. Load distribution complete. The weight hanging from the right arm that held the boy was now integrated into Ian's muscular alignment. As though there had only been one arm from the start.
Ian looked back.
Toward where he had come from. The forest beyond the gorge. The sector Ian had left. Darkness covered the forest's ceiling. Layers of leaves and branches and fog stacked into darkness. And above that darkness—
The sky split.
No sound. That was the most grotesque part. No blast. No engine noise. No sound of parachutes deploying. Nothing. Soundlessly, the pitch black of the night sky tore open and white things fell.
Lines. White lines. Not one. Two. Three. Five. Seven. Nine. White lines scoring the night sky vertically. Like meteors falling. Slower than meteors, more precise than meteors, colder than meteors—descending toward the forest's ceiling.
White.
Pure white. Light that did not eat the surrounding darkness. Unlike the red of the illumination rounds. Unlike the white glare of the searchlights. Those had illuminated their surroundings. This light did not illuminate. It simply glowed as it fell. Until it touched the forest canopy, it exerted no effect whatsoever on the surrounding dark. Not light within darkness—light driving through darkness like a nail.
Something rose along Ian's back.
The scar. The scar on the left side of his back pulled. The instant he saw the white. Eyes registered the light, optic nerve transmitted to the brain, and before the brain could open the drawer of memory—the scar reacted first. Old wound tissue beneath the skin contracted. The back muscles locked rigid for one beat. A chill climbed his spine. All the way to the base of his skull.
'Hyperarousal response detected.'
Ian's breathing stopped once.
Neither inhaling nor exhaling. The air inside his lungs went still. His heart skipped one beat. Within that single skipped beat, Ian's brain caught the chill. Caught it and pressed it down. Pressed it into a drawer. Closed the drawer. Breathing returned. Inhale, exhale. Once. Twice. On the third, the rigidity in his back muscles released.
'Purification Corps. Drop pods. Estimated deployment completion: 04:00. Current time: 03:58. Margin of error: under 2 minutes.'
The corner of Ian's mouth did not move. Instead, his eyes narrowed. The narrowed eyes counted the white lines. Nine. Standard complement per pod: two. Eighteen. Two platoons.
'On the mark.'
Matched the numbers from the radio. The count of white things falling from the sky matched the transmission. The Empire did not lie. Did not need to. When you unleash the hounds, there is no need to notify the prey.
The white lines began to touch the forest ceiling.
Leaves parted. Branches snapped. No sound. At this distance, inaudible. Only visible. Leaves parting, white being swallowed into the forest, darkness closing again. As though the forest had eaten the white things.
It had not. The forest was the one being eaten.
Ian withdrew his gaze.
Beyond the gorge. Inside that forest, things in white combat uniforms were landing right now. Things without faces would be stepping on the dirt Ian had walked, finding the bodies Ian had hidden, reading the footprints Ian had left. And they would catch the scent. The smell of blood. The residual trace of heat. Everything Ian had left behind.
Maria stood beside Ian. She too had seen the white meteors. White lines reflected in Maria's wet eyes, trembling. Maria's mouth did not open. This time, not even prayer came. Maria's body was rigid. Instinct had reacted before faith. Maria's feet, which had not stopped even in the minefield, were now rooted to the dirt. In the eyes watching the white things descend, something other than belief flickered for the first time.
The rest of the lower-sector residents could not see. They were prone behind Ian and Maria. Faces buried in the ground, holding their breath. They did not know that white things were descending. Not knowing was better.
Ian turned.
The boy in his arm. The gorge's far side. Back to the forest. Back to the white. Ian's feet moved forward. The stride did not quicken. Same length. Same rhythm.
"Move."
One word dropped. Maria's body unlocked. Maria followed. The group followed. Beyond the gorge, the forest was quietly swallowing the white things.
Ian's eyes looked ahead. Did not look behind.
The scar on his back was still pulling.