Needing to correct the fluctuating transmission figures, Althea couldn’t spare the attention to watch them leave, needed to smooth out the connection. There were sounds of scrambling behind her, then her ears were filled with the fury of the rising wind. She looked up at the low clouds; the wake of the corpora’s massive thrusters turned their swirling chaotic and violent.

Why are you still above the clouds? What are you waiting for?

It must be still closing in. She could hear its thunder, could feel the cycling pressure of its thruster’s massive subsonic wave displacement.

Turning her attention back to the trinary figures showing up on Dorian’s display, Althea tapped fields as she surveyed the confirmations the corpore sent. She could barely feel the display, rubbed her hands together, to ward off the chill – keep them warm, supple, agile.

Her NANs were clearly close to exhaustion. They couldn’t even keep her fingers warm.

True dawn arrived, a sharp slice of brilliant light from the horizon, below the edge of the cloud line, cutting through the blow of snow, the sun blindingly white from the east.

She turned away from its glare, standing to look down to the plaza below where the men must have fled. There was no sign of them. Below, beyond – no movement fluttered in the encampment but the undulating of the fabric of the tents, flap of ropes.

They should be safe. They must be safe! She prayed that they were safe.

Light snow whipped across her. Althea rubbed away the frozen dust, the afterglow from the brilliant sunlight, returned to the transmitter. Nothing new presented.

“Why do they always have to make it so difficult?” she complained.

They are human.

And she lied to them – manipulated them – ultimately drove them away.

It is hard for them to accept what you have to do.

She looked down at her pale hands. Still hers, still eight fingers, two thumbs – stained with human blood.

“Am I still…?” she wondered. With all she had done to herself, all she had done to others.

Of course you are. Dorian told her. You are doing this because you are human, because you believe in your humanity.

She slowly eased down, buffeted again by the wind. Above the clouds continued to swirl, the corpore, her enemy, her desire. She could feel the vibration of its thrusters now, in her bones, the powerful, cycling beat.

“I believe in my humanity,” she whispered. “I believe–”

The thrum changed. Althea, torn away from her reverie, the mantra, shot a glance up – no visible change. She looked back down to scrutinize the trinary on Dorian’s display. There were subtle changes in the patterns.

“The corpore…” she began. She couldn’t decipher the system’s transmission structure confidently, asked for confirmation.

“What’s it transmitting back?”

Only queries.

The pattern became obvious, a degree above the primary confirmations, but still only low-level acknowledgement. What was she missing? Had she overlooked something?

It is still in communications mode, Dorian noted.

That couldn’t last, mustn’t last. She needed to speed things up, before it realized–

Her fingers danced over the interface, shoring up her weaker code lines, adding several strings to her messages, applied subtle variations through each implant transmitter. Dorian highlighted a variation.

No, it was just a repeated string.

“Open up, come on…” she urged, then she noticed the complex patterns in the phase variation in the reply strings, the taste of true Macro code; complex syncopations– beautiful!

So beautiful.

“I see it,” she said excitedly, flashed her responses, queries, corralled matching complex responses from her pattern store. She was falling behind – called on Dorian for help – doubled his access. It was as much as she dared.

“There is a lot more variant code than normal,” she noticed. “That’s not good.”

Queries began repeating again. What was she doing wrong?

“Still only queries,” she didn’t have any other tricks. Tapped her cold lips with her forefinger: two, three times, held.

Maybe you need more stimulation.