Colonel Fares Abadoun, third son of the House of Abadoun, Commander of Labor Camp 35, frowns at the folding knife in his hands. The blade’s edge is keen and light ripples along its length. The spyglass is older, an antique of uncertain origin, but still working.

“The doctor is in the infirmary,” Captain Tahr says, continuing his report. “He can’t treat himself, so it’s up to the assistant to make do. The guards that were on duty at Receiving have already been reassigned to the Pit.”

The hinges in the commander’s chair squeak as he leans back. “What did the crew boss say?”

“He thought they were runaways from Barada. The Houses there don’t always tattoo their Gloop.” Captain Tahr scratches at his nose and looks away. “It’s illegal, but if they’re kept to the estates, no one will know.”

“By all accounts, the girl knew how to fight.”

“He thought she was a bodyguard,” Captain Tahr says.

“A bodyguard,” the commander says, his frown deepening, “carrying expedition gear.”

Captain Tahr shrugs. “He said it, not me. Although in his defense, they weren’t dressed for the cold.”

“A disguise perhaps. To make us think they were runaways. Besides, they were Gloop. Freaks of nature. Who knows what they’re capable of. No, the crew boss was sloppy. Send him to the Pit too.”

“That would be a waste,” Tahr says, carefully. “He’s a good man.”

“Do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The commander hefts one of the now-empty bags. The reinforced bottom is stiff and heavy—too stiff, too heavy—and he uses the sharp knife at the seams. A pile of small gold bars spills out onto his desk.

Captain Tahr’s eyebrows rise. “Stolen maybe? From the estate they ran from?”

“Are you an ass, Captain?”

Tahr swallows. “No, Colonel.”

“Then stop braying like one.” The commander fumes at how the Gloop slipped out of his camp like ghosts. They’d been disguised and carrying expedition gear. The gold is unstamped—easily traded, traceless, and perfect for bribes. He slams his hand on the desk, making the gold bars jump. “These Gloop are not runaways. They are spies! And we’ve just given them a first-hand account of our incompetence!”

Captain Tahr wisely says nothing.

“I want them caught, and I want them alive for questioning. We need to know if it’s the Alliance probing our defenses or the Silent plotting sabotage. Use every man and every vehicle—”

“But production—”

“Damn production to the Nine Hells,” the commander says. “Lock up all the Gloop if you have to, but I want these spies caught! Understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

###

The truck winds its way up the valley’s eastern boundary. In the distance, the sun sets over the western range, casting long shadows across the ice. Hallon keeps watch from the back of the truck and sighs. They’d made their escape, and there’s a good chance this is the world with Dawrtaine, but she worries that the city could be anywhere.

A line of lights flicker at the base of the mountain. “We have trouble,” she says.

Milo dusts himself off and joins her. “I don’t see—Oh, those are half-tracks, aren’t they? How disappointing.” He adjusts his spectacles and observes the vehicles’ approach. “They’ll catch up in twenty-three minutes and nineteen seconds at their current speed. What do we do? I’ve never been an escaped prisoner before.”

“Well, the first thing is not to panic.”

“I can do that,” Milo says. “I think.”

“If it helps, you’re under my protection now.” That may not mean anything to him, but it does to Hallon.

Besides, Eratosthenes is convinced Milo is necessary to prevent the Calamity. She’ll do everything in her power to keep him safe. The problem is that they still haven’t seen any signs of trees or animals. She’d hoped to slip away by now, but leaving the truck would mean having to survive without gear and without a way to forage for food. While Hallon can manage on her own, it would be dangerous for Milo.

Well, Hallon always has a backup plan. Always. “Milo, do you know how to drive?”

“Theoretically, yes.” He pauses. “Why does that question alarm me?”

Hallon claps him on the shoulder. “Good. Follow me.” So saying, she picks her way towards the front of the truck and up onto the cab. A glance shows Milo following.

The wind is frigid, and she feels her teeth wanting to chatter, but a touch of fire eases the cold and loosens her limbs. She takes a breath to center herself before dropping to her belly and reaching over the side to pull open the driver’s door. Unlocked, and why wouldn’t it be? There’s no one around for miles. The driver is badly startled when the door jerks open, and the wind roars into the cab. Hallon punches, and his head snaps back. She’s ready with a follow-up strike, but it’s not necessary. The driver slumps to the side.

The truck veers towards the embankment, and Hallon curses when Milo loses his feet and tumbles from the cab’s roof. The luck’s with him though, and he catches hold of the side, his body arcing to slam into the truck. Hallon pushes the unconscious driver out of the way and climbs into the cab, grabbing the wheel to hold it steady. The tires’ rumbling quiets as she steers them away from the drop.

“Hurry,” she yells out the open door.

“I am not panicking,” Milo yells back. “I am not panicking.”

His foot reaches towards the cab. A hand follows soon after. Hallon pulls him inside and slides over to make room.

“That was the fourth most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced.” Milo takes the wheel from her and scans the controls. He guns the engine, and the truck speeds up again.

“Take her as fast as she’ll go,” Hallon says. They hurtle along the road, closing in on the next truck in the convoy. There’s just enough room to pass on the left, the cliff side. “Can you do it?”

Milo’s face is intent, his hands white from their death grip on the wheel. He nods.

The other driver looks over in surprise as they pull up beside her. She rapidly slows, the truck’s wheels sliding as she applies the brakes and makes room for them. Her truck horn blasts—two short notes and a long. The pattern repeats twice more, and the truck ahead picks it up and passes it forward. One by one, the trucks of the convoy pull over, getting out of the way of the hijacked truck.

“Good, good, now faster,” Hallon says. “There’s no one ahead of us.” The cabin rattles and shakes as they speed up the mountain. An alarm buzzes intermittently from the dash. “What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Milo says, frowning. “But I doubt it’s good.”

“Hmm… all right. Keep going. We’ll find out when we find out. I’m going to find this fella a place to sleep,” she says, gesturing to the unconscious driver. There’s space to lay him out in the back of the cab, and she maneuvers him into it, placing his head on a folded blanket she finds there. “Nighty night,” she says.

Hallon continues poking around the cabin and finds the driver’s lunch box. Inside, there’s flat bread wrapped around mutton, sliced onions, and a sesame paste. She grins—it’s gratifying to know that this world contains something to eat other than ice—and she tears the sandwich in two, giving half to Milo. “Eat.”

He looks at her like she’s mad.

“Eat. We don’t know when we’ll get the chance again.”

Milo takes a breath and carefully lets one hand go from the wheel. He’d left some skin clinging to the truck’s side, and the wheel’s bloody where he gripped it.

Hallon eats her share of the sandwich and continues searching the cabin. Under a latch, she finds a tool box and a massive, three-foot long wrench.

Milo’s eyebrows lift when she hefts it. “Very nice.”

“It’ll do,” she says.

The road rises and curves as the mountain demands. They slide a little on each of the turns, and Milo’s breathing stops every time. Afterward, he mutters to himself about velocities and inertia. A quick look out the window tells Hallon that the half-tracks have nearly caught up. No one’s shooting though; a hopeful sign. “I’ll be right back,” she says, taking the wrench.

“Wha—”

But Hallon’s not there to answer. She’s gone out the passenger door and swung out to climb onto the roof, staying low just in case the soldiers change their minds about not shooting.

She opens the Gate of the Sun Horse, and the fire surges through her limbs. She concentrates the rest of her spirit on reinforcing her body. Ready, she waits for the soldiers. The half-tracks surge forward as if accepting the challenge. The lead vehicle drifts towards the cliff side, looking to go around.

Hallon gathers her spirit into her hands and weaves an image of the cliff side eroding; the half-track tilting and falling down the mountain, tumbling end over end as its passengers fall to their deaths. She flings the spell at the driver. His terror echoes back along the lines of energy, and he swerves his vehicle away from the cliffside and into the embankment. The collision twists its front skis and throws the soldiers forward. Some of them fly over the cab and into the mountain.

The other half-tracks go around the accident, except for the last in line which stops to render aid. Hallon grins, her teeth bared. The number of opponents is cut in half.

The same spell rolls off her fingers, and the next driver slams on his brakes. The half-track snakes left and right, the back swings out, and the vehicle rolls, tossing more soldiers into the air.

The third half-track weaves between the men, its engine growling as it barrels upward. Hallon casts the spell again, but this driver is made of sterner stuff. He shrugs off its influence with just a tremble of the half-track’s nose. A soldier sitting in the passenger seat yells through a small window to the others riding in the back. Two soldiers take aim at the truck’s tires.

The wrench’s balance is wrong for throwing, but Hallon throws it anyway. The head smashes through the half-track’s windshield. Glass shatters, the shards sparkling. The driver recoils, and the half-track rides up onto the embankment to spoil the soldiers’ aim. The half-track over-corrects like a fish on the line, but the driver doesn’t give up. He gets his vehicle under control and brings it alongside the truck once more.

Before they can get organized, Hallon roars and jumps, the air flowing around her like she’s Eratosthenes flying, to drop among the soldiers in the back of the half-track. She double punches with the Donkey’s Welcome, knocking the air out of two soldiers staring stupidly at her. A knee to the groin sends a third soldier to the ground. That shakes the others from their surprise, and they start to come at her. But it’s too close and too crowded for their rifles, and the soldiers get in each others’ way. Hallon weaves between them to strike with fists and palms, with elbows and knees, each movement like an old friend come to visit.

Hallon catches a soldier’s wrist and he must follow or have it broken. He loses his balance, and she drops him at the feet of another soldier, tripping him up. The feeling of danger spins her around. A knife slashes towards her, and she drops low, letting it pass before rising up—the energy pulled from the ground, winding through her hips and torso—to uppercut the knife-wielder. His jaw shatters and he’s thrown backward. Hallon snatches the knife and tosses it over the side.

Her opponents step away, trying to get out of her way, but they’re trapped with her. She works her way through them, step by step, reaching for their weak points and soft places. The fire burns bright and hot, her limbs heavy with power.

The passenger-soldier climbs out his window to aim a pistol. Hallon weaves through the soldiers to spoil his aim. When he blinks, she jumps to the half-track’s roof to kick the gun away. The pistol fires, flashing in the dark. Hallon reaches down to grab the soldier by the lapels, and tosses him onto the road. His body tumbles when he hits the ground and rolls to a stop.

She opens the passenger side door and slips in beside the driver. There’s blood streaming down his face from where he was cut by the glass. He stares at her like she’s a monster, and maybe he’s not wrong.

“That was well fought,” Hallon says, “but the day is lost. Will you yield?”

The driver stares a moment longer—at her breath steaming and the fire in her eyes—and slowly nods.

“That is well. There’s no shame in retreating from a stronger opponent. Pull up alongside the truck’s cab, and I will leave. You will stop chasing after.”

Her voice is dense with command, and the driver does as he’s told. Hallon climbs onto the roof to jump for the truck’s open door. Behind her, the half-track slows, its lights disappearing behind the truck.

Milo’s taken aback by whatever he sees on her face. “A—are you all right?”

Hallon laughs. She can’t help it. “Never better.”

“O—oh.” Milo sneaks a glance sideways at her. “That’s good then.”

Two flares launch into the air behind them, turning the snow red as they float slowly down.