The canopy didn’t merely filter light. It swallowed sound.
Arthur Vance pushed beneath the overarching arches of the Silicate Forest. Then, the surrounding hum of the hollow core fell dead. The violet spore fog was so dense that clear sight dropped to less than twenty paces. Every breath drawn through his suit filters carried the faint, dry crackle of static-electric ionization. At the same time, his boots clicked across a floor covered in inches of spongy, hardened spore-fleece.
Pip rode on the high silver-steel perch above Arthur’s left shoulder, his ruby beak slightly parted. He didn’t whistle. Avian hunting beasts born of sky fire understood when air currents signaled an ambush.
Grimm trotted four paces ahead, his massive head lowered, carbon-bristled spine rolling with fluid, heavy menace. The hound’s notched left ear twitched backward every three seconds to align with the rhythm of Arthur’s heartbeat sent through the neural link. In low-clear sight terrain, Cell Alpha operated not by voice commands, but through timed together automatic tracking data.
“Pip, light the heat envelope,” Arthur murmured. He kept his grip firm on the foregrip of his ARC-7 Mag-Carbine. “Low burn. Radius twelve meters. Cleanse the immediate airspace.”
Pip gave a sharp, affirmative clack of his bill.
