Len Vey lay motionless on the canvas litter, his eyes fixed on the three lines of white text suspended in the cold mountain air twelve inches before his face.
The sun had climbed two fingers above the granite teeth of the Guard now. The light was no longer a level blade. It had broadened into a warm, heavy tide that struck the coarse wool of his trousers, the battered leather of his boots, and the blood-stiffened canvas of his litter. For five days, light had been an enemy to be measured with suspicious terror. The green, chemical glow of copper filaments that blinded men in the alleys. The blinding flash of an emergence fissure splitting open a cellar wall. The flickering yellow animal fat lamps of frightened refugees huddled behind barricades.
This light had no smell of burnt stone oil. It carried no ozone, no grease, and no copper filings. It was simply ninety million miles of unrushed sky-high transit, warming the frost on the stone and turning the damp mortar joints into lines of soft, dark gray.
Before him, the screen waited.
[1] CARRYING BALANCE: Dynamic load senses [2] TREAD LIGHTNESS: Unloaded burst speed [3] ROUTE RECALL: Topographical index memory
