Five miles of sheer upright dark rock rose into the upper air like the throat of an extinct fiery titan.
At the base of the Continental Rift, the roar of the Siphon Trench had transformed. Where boiling, rotten-egg sludge had churned for thirty thousand years, cool crystal-clear water now cascaded through the newly cleared granite spillways, foaming into deep turquoise holding pools before sinking smoothly into the sub-lithospheric underground water beds. The air at the floor was cold and oxygen-rich. It smelled of cracked stone, clean ozone, and the faint, sweet trace of melting mountain glaciers far above.
Lin Tao knelt by the suspended copper narrow high walkway, carefully unrolling a spool of braided hemp climbing thick ship rope.
His fingers were stiff and raw. Across both palms, the second-degree friction and spark burns sustained during the final grounding of the Precursor register bus had dried into tight, honey-colored scabs. He bent his hands to test a friction knot. Each time, the scarred skin across his knuckles pulled taut. It sent sharp, stinging needles of living protest through his outward nerves.
He reached into his leather travel satchel, unstoppered a small tin of rendered badger animal fat and bitter pine-resin. Then he worked a generous dab into the cracked skin of his palms.
