The descent from the Star tower terrace began with a six-inch drop over the granite threshold of the northern blast gate. Len Vey felt the internal mechanics of his tenth milestone engage with the cold, unrushed certainty of a well-oiled balance weight.
When the two quarry riggers—burly men from the lower drift shafts whose shoulders were accustomed to carrying twelve-foot timber struts—stepped down onto the uneven flat stone slabs of the switchback road, the ash-wood litter poles dipped sharply to the left. Under ordinary circumstances, that sudden, three-degree tilt would have produced a total sideways twisting force across Len’s upper torso. The dead, ten-pound weight of his braced left arm would have swung outward like an unsecured crane jib. The torn pectoralis minor muscle beneath his collarbone would have spasmed. And the sharp, fractured ends of his sixth and seventh ribs would have ground against each other with a white-hot agony that would have driven the breath from his throat.
It didn’t happen.
Before the canvas could tilt enough to slide his hips against the rail, a set of micro-shifts fired along his spine. Not by conscious effort or disciplined willpower, but through the deep, self-running body wiring of Carrying Balance.
