The slate sat on the polished counter, a rectangle of absolute black in the stall’s weak yellow light. It was an invitation and a threat, a key and a lock. Julian Croft’s smile was the final component of the trap, a thin, precise expression that promised nothing but consequence. Rhys felt the faint, erratic clicking of the Geiger counter on his wrist-comm, a nervous rhythm that matched the frantic beat in his own chest. He had six rounds in his sidearm. It would not be enough. They were not here to fight. They were here to steal the board.
— A trade of equal value, — Croft repeated, his voice a soft purr. He spread his hands, a gesture of false generosity. — A simple transaction.
Nysa did not look at the slate. She looked at the crystalline memory arrays lining the curved walls, at the web of fine wires that fed them power. Her eyes, those milky white orbs, seemed to trace the flow of energy in the room. A low hum emanated from the electronics, a steady note of function. She took a slow, deliberate breath, and the air in the cramped sphere grew colder. A faint shimmer, like heat haze in reverse, distorted the space around her.
The hum of the stall’s systems faltered. It was not a choice she made with words, but with will. The price was a flicker of the pale light in her own veins, a momentary dimming. The consequence was immediate. Croft’s diagnostic screen dissolved into a cascade of white static. The memory arrays flared with phantom signals, a chorus of meaningless data-ghosts screaming for attention. The steady hum became a discordant shriek of electronic panic.
— What is this? — Croft snapped, his smooth facade cracking. He spun in his chair, his hands flying across a control panel, trying to diagnose a system failure that had no logical source. The diversion was total. The window was five seconds.
Rhys moved. His cybernetic leg absorbed the two steps to the counter without a sound. His flesh-and-blood hand, the one with the faded circuit diagram tattooed on the forearm, closed around the data-slate. The material was cool, inert, its surface unnaturally smooth. It felt like a piece of a dead world. He palmed it, the motion economical, a piece of training from a life he no longer claimed. The heist was a single, silent beat of defiance.
— Now, — he said, the word a low rasp.
They turned to flee. The soft, electronic chime that had announced their arrival sounded again, but this time it was shrill, an alarm. Croft’s head whipped around, his eyes locking on Rhys’s empty hand, then the space on the counter where the slate had been. The mask of the calm broker fell away, revealing a raw, possessive fury.
— You— — he began, but they were already moving, bursting through the door and into the damp, grey air of the Drowned Causeway.
The escape was not clean. As Rhys cleared the doorway, his shoulder brushed against the rusted metal frame. There was no physical impact, but a sudden, piercing cold shot through him, a cold that had nothing to do with the air. The smell of ozone and burnt plastic filled his senses, sharp and overwhelming. A high-frequency whine drilled into his skull, a sound that was not a sound but a pressure. The Geiger counter on his wrist, which had been clicking nervously, erupted into a frantic, meaningless chatter of pure static for a single second before falling utterly silent.
The world dissolved. He was no longer on a floating barge city. He was in a small room, the air thick with smoke. Heat, searing and absolute, pressed in from all sides. Before him, a woman stood, her face a mask of terror, her mouth open in a scream he could not hear. Flames, impossibly bright, bloomed from her clothes, consuming her. It was not his memory. It was not his terror. But it was in his head, real and total, overwriting his own consciousness with the final, agonizing moments of a stranger. He stumbled, his legs refusing to obey, his mind trapped in the fire.
Nysa felt the psychic radiation bloom from the doorway, a wave of pure, weaponized trauma. She saw Rhys falter, his eyes going vacant, his body starting to seize. She reacted without thought. Her hand shot out, grabbing his arm. Her touch was a shock of grounding reality against the phantom heat of the Glass Echo. She pulled him, dragging him away from the invisible psychic mine Croft had planted in the doorway.
Her touch was an anchor. The image of the burning woman fractured, the silent scream receding into a ghost of a whisper. The searing heat faded, leaving behind a cold ache deep in his bones. He was back on the Drowned Causeway, the grey water slapping against corroded pontoons, the smell of salt and rust chasing away the phantom scent of smoke. He was back in his own body, but a piece of him was still in the fire. The slate was heavy in his hand. His wrist-comm was silent.
The grey water of the canal slapped a hollow rhythm against a corroded steel wall. From somewhere high above, the lonely cry of a scavenger hawk cut through the damp air.
