ch4 · The Reach

The city rises like a scolding figure, sanctioned and full of judgment for daring to enter. Vae marches closer, coming from the cliff base, her skis are slung over her shoulder, sled cart in tow. Large braziers stagger the length of the front wall as snow drifts grow between them. Like white roots to a darkened stone partition. Behind it, The Reach crouches over. Steadily rising columns of smoke account for its reign. The thickest of them rises from a facility called The Bin. The city’s focal point for disposal. Not of everyday refuse and garbage. Contraband. It is where forbidden technology is thrown into a pit of magma flow. The smoke burns low, steady, darker.

Tomorrow the smoke will stop. Shut down by the powers that be. The work, The pretending. All of it.

Even now Vae tells herself she will not miss it. A lie she’s practiced too long to stop now. It’s where everything ended. And it is where she goes to work.

The small house, miles away, is her first home. The Bin, her second.

Her body died there momentarily but her life, it died both permanently and ongoing. And now, every morning, her return is unceremonious. Like nothing happened. As if the moment didn’t shape everything that followed. As if Dev didn’t die using outlawed tech to save her life. She continues to return, not out of necessity, but because the city hasn’t seen her give up. They don’t deserve the satisfaction.

Her steps move off a frost-worn ridgeline and onto inclined mud and rock. The Reach squats on a shallow caldera; a volcanic field under a deep layer of rock and sediment. The source of heat is life support for the surrounding area. Those who reside outside the walls, like Vae, funnel in every morning. Each commuter arrives to sell their wares or services, presenting fragments of legitimacy that The Rite may bless as it sees fit, according to its ordained legislation and flavor of honor. As if waving a holy hand over each poisoned soul who enters, convinced such a gesture builds a tolerance.

The heavy gates lay open. A slight sway in their movement as the heat fluctuates in and out of the city’s threshold. The heavy breath of a tempered people.

“Late again, trink.”

The guard, Jorge, throws a typical opening at Vae without looking at her. He squints at the sky, checking a sun hidden by clouds. He can’t even tell time, the oaf.

Ordinarily, she wins the morning by throwing a barb, only for it to ping off his half-wit pride. Today, their dance is out of sync. She wants through. Each step closer to the only moment that matters. He mistakes today’s end as ceremony.

“Oi! Don’t rush this.”

He grasps his rusty sword. “Don’t defy tradition.”

“Failure mean that much to you?” She says without hesitation.

Vae turns to him, causing the cart to slide behind her. She gives him a flat look, waiting for an intelligent thought from him that will never develop.

“Fat lip.” he coughs out bluntly. “You finally meet a good man?”

“You finally meet a willing sheep?”

She barely offers her pack, expecting him to yank it out of her hands for inspection.

Instead, Jorge waits. A sly grin grows but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s a flicker. A thought, maybe. Or a knowing. He doesn’t even look at her sled cart. The playfulness of his cruelty evaporates. “Clever words are useless today, bitch.”

“Well,” she glares at him straight in the eye. “If there’s anything you would know, it would be useless. You pock-marked ox.”

Normally, this would earn a night in the barracks, but they each have a different finality in mind about today. Inside the cart, Zero doesn’t move.

Vae continues marching into the city. Her resolve serves her for a different reason this morning. Normally, it’s a force of repetition rather than social acceptance. Today, it’s to get the last piece and never come back to this place ever again.

The Reach is what happens when the benefactors of evolution decide to stop evolving. Everything is old, by design. Manual pulleys, frozen mud roofs, rusted hinges. Posters line random sides of buildings: ZERO TECH – REPORT ALL CONTRABAND. An outsider sheepishly pockets his spectacles. Children tug carts made of animal bone. Guards eye citizens and visitors alike as if they have something to hide. Most do.

The market smells like burning peat and boiled fat. Familiar. Unwelcome.

A voice pierces the morning chill “Good morning, Vae!”

Vae exhales before acknowledging. “Hello, Ms. Schyzel.”

The woman, small but undeterred, steps through slush with an offering “I’ve made you stew.” Like proof of virtue, Ms. Schyzel holds out a covered bowl.

“You didn’t have to,” Vae says, already edging past. “Really.”

“It’s the least I could do, child,” she persists, “Today will test us all.”

“It won’t be that bad.” Vae conjects. “I won’t be here long today.”

“No one will.” she says ironically. Her ominous tone unintentional. Maybe not.

Ms. Schyzel trots in front to insist. “Everyone gets hungry, no matter the day. Easy or hard.”

Vae concedes for the sake of escape. “Thank you, Ms. Schyzel.”

“Will you see your mother after it’s over?” her question is polished to sound innocent.

Vae responds in kind, “Hopefully soon.”

“She asks about you often. What shall I tell her this time?”

“That I’ll be busy but hopefully soon.” Vae visibly shows all possible, polite signs that she’s ready to part ways. “Thank you again for the stew, Ms. Schyzel.” 

“I hope you’ll have time to visit her after it’s over.” Ms. Schyzel relents her physical pursuit on the condition of the last word. “A loving daughter loves her mother…”

Walking away, Vae rolls her eyes…

“…when she takes the time to love her.”

“Wise words, Ms. Schyzel. Have a good day then.”

“I know you’re a good daughter, Vae.”

“Thank you, Ms—”

“You’ll do the right thing.”

You win, Ms. Schyzel. She thinks to herself, conceding the last word. Congratulations on your victory.

Vae puts the bowl in her sled cart allowing the cold to claim it. Whatever guilt she was meant to swallow can freeze with it.

She reaches the other end of the market with surprisingly little issue. Then ahead, a scuffle. A guard shouting. Vae tenses. Not because she’s harboring an illegal A.I. stowaway, but because here, guilt and innocence are irrelevant.

Vae squints to make out the latest victim of The Rite’s tokenized whims: They’re arresting Har. Vae’s gut tightens. Not from surprise, but from the defeat that comes with the thought—the memory—that she forgets will haunt her the rest of her life. Of course it’s Har. Today of all days. She ties him to that memory. And she hates that she does.

He slipped that damned device to Dev. The defibrillator. Set the whole thing in motion. Har, like all trinks, whose stupid risk ended Dev’s life but saved hers.

She never thanked him. Never forgave him.

But she catches his eye.

Just for a moment.

The guards don’t notice her. Convenient but not surprising. As they drag him past her, beaten but not broken, he slips something into her hand. A hydracoil. Easy enough to conceal.

Zero tilts back into his slot. Silent.

She keeps walking. Well past the commotion. No one is looking. She slips the tech behind a loose stone. A common dead drop known among the trinks. Among “The Chain”. She’s done it a hundred times before. No pause. No twitch. Muscle memory.

Back in the distance, voices rise. The arresting guards are shouting now, fumbling, unable to find what they thought he had. A weapon without its sin.

She doesn’t look back at the man who doomed her, at the man she just saved.

It’s not even the first time.

The Bin looms ahead. Monolithic. Neglected.

The city’s digestion—everything consumed, processed, passive aggressively forgotten inside. It squats at the city’s edge, nearest the lava veins that keep the cold from claiming everything.

The great arch sinks under its own weight, shored up by fixed scaffolding—a collage of panicked patchwork meant to hold what always falls apart. It doesn’t just swallow what’s forbidden. It swallows itself. Every few years, another section gives way, sliding through the crust into the molten dark below. An offering to the fire that keeps the city alive.

Vae parks her sled cart with the others. Zero smartly camouflaged. Concealed. She shuffles in line to clock-in. Cam finds her. Narrow shoulders and round frame make him look younger what is allowed. Hair matted to one side, he blends in too well, except for the sharpness in his eyes. Always reading trouble before needing to scatter. He steps in line behind her.

“Normal day today,” he mutters.

Vae eyes the cluster of guards near the entrance. More than usual. She can feel the heightened tension but underestimates the armored headcount.

“They picked up Har on my way in.” Her tone flat. “Hydracoil’s behind the stone at the west smithing.”

Not far ahead, Siah throws a glance back. Her toned shoulders softened by wear. Dark braids catching torchlight. Her expression steady, protective. Absorbing the room before it reacts.

Cam doesn’t speak. Her glance is enough. She’s said it before. Too many times.

In the Bin, rules don’t bend. They fracture.

Guards confiscate scraps from lockers. Workers avert their eyes. Even Garren won’t meet hers from the catwalk.

Cam again, this time behind tightened teeth. “Normal. Day. Today.”

Vae cuts him a look. He points out the problem with a subtle flick of his eyes. A second intuition all workers learn if they value survival. Vae scans the space with more deliberation.

Today is not a normal day. They’re everywhere. Every corner, a battle helmet. A glint behind a kiln fire. Not just guards. Soldiers.

She follows his meaning.

She finds Siah’s eyes again. It’s not going according to plan. Siah’s small shrug says the rest. They lied. Again.

Even on the catwalk, flanking Garren, two guards feebly act like scenery.

The Bin shuts down today. That’s not the surprise. The soldiers are.

The Rite calls it a peaceful closure. Addressing confused responses with its typical virtue signaling: A new era of nurturing. As God intended.

Peace means soldiers. Power. Always has. After all, a forest cannot grow unless you burn whatever is in the way. Including a forest.

Vae isn’t in the mood to follow The Rite’s weaponized choreography. The DNAT is here. Dev’s voice is here. Somewhere.

She pulls her hood up and leaves the line. Pointless to stamp your work card for a job that’s doomed before the ink dries. The futile sound of workers checking in wanes behind her.

Inside the Bin is a maze of catwalks, mezzanines, and access platforms snaking through furnaces, sorting belts and hoisting apparatuses. A hollow concrete and iron furnace. Loud, chaotic, but today feels like listening. Guards murmur more than usual. Floor captains stall longer. And in place of the usual clatter of work, a rigid quiet. A waiting.

Vae doesn’t reach her station before Siah pulls her aside, into an unoccupied shadow where torchlight doesn’t quite reach.

“You should go home.” Siah mutters. “Something is off.”

Vae raises an eyebrow. “Since when is anything on?”

“I’m talking about something worse than the usual lies. There are too many soldiers. Too few officers. People are too scared to move.”

“I’m just here for the DNAT.”

Siah’s look is flat, tired. “I know why you built Zero. What you’re attempting.”

“So?”

“Honey, why you lighting a fuse under a thousand noses?”

Vae doesn’t blink. “What’s it matter? They’re gonna try and kill us today anyway.”

Siah sways back, breath caught.

“If they don’t need the Bin,” Vae concludes, calm, “why would they need us?”

Siah looks around, as if for the first time. They thought they were just losing their jobs. Instead they might have walked straight to their deaths. Her eyes rise to the catwalk. Garren leans on the railing. But there’s someone else.

“That don’t account for the mystery man up there,” she whispers.

Vae lovingly waits for her to continue, because she’s like family.

“There’s someone up there. Not in robes. Not armed. Just watching. Like he’s already seen it. And the guards,” she nods upward, “they keep a distance.”

The man steps forward. His shape wiggles in the shimmer of the heat. Vae can’t make out his face but recognizes the telltale traits. Not local. Too lean. His stance uneasy in the warmth. Even here he’s cold.

“Not from ‘round here,” Siah says, her eyes narrow. “And they let him in. Here. He’s looking for something. Or someone.”

Her voice softens. “We got to go, now.” She grabs Vae by both shoulders. “You think we can get Garren out with us?”

Vae takes Siah’s face in her hands. Gentle but immovable. She wants to help but needs her to understand. “I can’t leave without it.

The DNAT is here. Dev is here.

“Just ‘cause it might work how you want,” she understands. More than Vae realizes, “don’t mean it won’t take more than you can give.”

Siah knows she can’t protect both Vae and Garren, but she has to try. “If you run a direct link, it’ll need more than just data. It’ll need more than that.”

Vae doesn’t flinch. “I’m more willing than you think.”

Siah gasps, small and human.

Vae holds her gaze. “I need to know where.”

She can only help Garren. Tears come, uninvited. Vae’s stillness anchors the sorrow.

Cam emerges from behind the beam. Time to go but sees the tears. So he waits.

Siah relents. “Garren’ll patrol the second ring. Same route as usual. He’ll find you.”

Siah pulls her closer. “If he finds you a way out, take it.” They embrace “Please take it.”

Vealyn can only nod. Words would break it.

Siah turns. Cam follows.

Vae stays until they vanish behind a furnace light.

Vae walks to her station. A familiar role with a foreign determination.

A tardiness would usually mandate an excuse. The floor captain doesn’t ask. Too afraid the scene would catch a guard’s eye.

No clang of armor approaches. They’re too busy watching each other. Reassurance that they don’t know what to look for.

Her task is pointless: pull anything with an allergic reaction to heat. Almost nothing comes down the line. Stationmates are fighting uncertainty instead of pretending to work.

She fills a small crate anyway. Garren’s timing depends on it. When she’s collected enough items, he appears. Right on cue.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just walks beside her as she transports the crate to the stack, his hands clasped behind his back like always. A furnace vent exhales as they pass. It hisses and dies again.

“I just need—”

“Siah told me,” he cuts in. “We both know better than to argue.”

Vae lifts a harmless pipe from the crate and presents it for debate. Garren plays along and nods. Stationmates catch on. Ready themselves to distract if needed. The guards are clueless.

“She also confirmed what we feared. Why you want it.”

“Need it.” She corrects.

She shows another useless item.

“Listen to me. It’s not built to stabilize you. At least wait for one of us to assist.”

His concern would have an effect if not for where they stand. Where Dev made his choice. For her. It’s where they took him away. She’s beyond any effect. “Who’s the foreigner?” she deflects.

Garren’s shoulders sink. She won’t wait.

“Dunno,” he mutters. “He don’t talk much, but he does a lot of listening.”

He takes the next piece from her hand and steers her to a support strut where sound where echoes won’t carry. His voice softens.

“We’ve all lost someone and tried building around the hole. Hoping it won’t make the next one.”

Vae’s silence is her response.

He gestures back over his shoulder. “East lift. Red grate. I cleaned it. Made the drop myself.” A risk that could kill him. “You’ll need to time it right. I won’t see you again till this blows over—or blows up.”

Vae notices the guards shifting focus on her stationmates. “Something tells me my timing will have to be different than usual.”

He hesitates. He wants to say more. She knows he can’t.

He kisses her forehead. She touches his sleeve. No words.

Garren resumes his path. Vae stacks the crate in the wrong place and moves into a thin flow of bodies, heading toward the East lift. To the last piece she needs.

She keeps her pace steady. Unrushed. A worker on task. Not a thief.

The corridor with more workers decides her route. Instinct keeps her actions in stride.

The floor smells like it’s being smelted by the caution in her steps.

Not far, the DNAT waits where Garren described. Base of the lift. Behind the red grate. It’s wrapped in grey tape. Hidden in plain sight. To anyone else, it’s trash fallen through the floor. Low and in shadow.

She grabs another container. Official enough to pass a glance. Crouches, pretending to mend her boot. Swings the grate open just enough. Slides her hand through, past decoys, feels the weight in her grip.

The DNAT.

Smaller than she imagined but still tricky to handle with one hand. Heavier for it. She lowers it in her container like a heart packed away for the transplant.

Too easy.

She rises and scans for reaction. Nothing. The hum of the floor uninterrupted. The bodies shuffle along.

Too easy never is.

She has a dozen exits. None confirmed safe. Guessing is time-wasted. Time wasted is suicide.

Instinct takes over. She etches herself into this place she knows too well. It knows her gait, where to shift weight to keep her presence at a minimum. Muscle memory leads the way while she focuses on the guards. Their behavior. Who’s watching her. Are they hunting someone else? Can she help? Would her warning be a catalyst for panic?

Then, Cam.

He whispers not so low, “Someone’s asking for you. Take the long way out!”

North corridor. Instantly mapped in her mind. Cam abandons his post as soon as she clears his sightline.

The test begins. Can her profile stay low long enough to matter?

The guards attention tightens. Alert and receptive. Trained on a relaying of orders she can’t hear. Their nonchalance, so quickly tossed away, exposes their intention. The early safety, she realizes, was never part of the plan. It was bait.

The long way leads away from Zero. Forget the long way. The short route is all that matters now. She breaks for it.

The guards sharpened but radiating attention is now consolidated. Their eyes all drawn to their officers. A moment of synchronization. Full attention now. Her decided route may be shorter but it’s not close enough.

A corridor opens.

She calculates traversal time: fifteen seconds exposed, maybe twenty. Too long to walk. Too short to plan. The west end has an exhaust hatch. Usable only if the tertiary kiln is cold. It’ll have to be.

A dreaded shout cuts through the floor noise. But the guards react like struck tuning forks.

“Shift’s over!” one yells—far too early.

Side doors open. Soldiers spill in.

The room fractures. Excited worker chatter fills the down beats of soldier orders. “Along the walls! Face the exits!”

One soldier moves faster than the others. Jorge, big, searching. He’s wanted this day exclusively for her.

She doesn’t look back. Her subtlety is all but gone. Whether she’s been spotted or not, it’s a race.

The hatch waits half open. She slips through without so much as grazing an edge. Air burns through her lungs. Not fatigue. Panic. Not for her life but the proximity of recovering his. At least a part of his. The most important part.

Every soldier is moving now, tripping over each other’s intensity.

Above, she can make out Siah and Garren on the catwalk. Safer together than apart. They spot her, just once. They exchange an earnest nod. Permission or farewell, yet to be determined.

Cam got a head start before anyone else. She knows him. Her confidence is not unfounded.

Relief is brief. She swiftly, quietly, closes the hatch and keeps moving. The duct breathes heat but not flame. She follows its single direction.

Jorge lets out a frustrated bark. Then a scuffle. A crack of a baton. A scream echoes too far.

Vae finds Zero, stowed away as she found him, and the riot has found its unstoppable momentum.

Trying to leave the city would be suicide. No story would fend off her arrest. Instead, she makes for a lesser-known dead drop. A half-finished cellar near the city’s edge. Abandoned, forgotten. More importantly, big enough to fit the sled cart.

The cellar, now a makeshift safehouse, and the sled cart converts to an emergency shelter. A bit cramped but it’ll have to do. She listens.

Silence, except for her own increased pulse.

Also, smuggled in, a morse code radio. She thumbs a switch to quietly bring it to life. Cam signs in first. Safe under Garren’s flat, in his secret workshop. Impressive. Then Garren, signaling for himself and Siah. Also safe.

Vae signs in only once. Alive. Then cuts the feed. Her desire overpowers their concern.

The risks don’t matter now. Maybe they never did.

She has it now, and will bring him back. Nothing else matters.

Chapter 5: The DNAT →

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