The second receiver reached six kilometres.
Nate watched the number fall while the vibration beneath the western rail grew stronger.
5.8 KM
Iris stood beside Holt, one hand resting on the suspension brace.
"How much charge?"
"Fifty-seven percent."
"Is that enough?"
"For Holt, maybe."
The sound reached them through the fog a minute later.
A small maintenance vehicle followed the western line toward the relay. Its engine coughed between each turn of the wheels, and one of its front lamps had been broken.
No railway identification appeared on the transmitter.
Nate raised the rifle.
The vehicle slowed before the platform.
Three people occupied it.
A woman lay across the rear bench with both hands pressed against her stomach. Two men sat in front. One wore a railway jacket over civilian clothes. The other carried a short weapon across his knees.
Nate recognized the man in the jacket.
He had stood inside Coach Eleven before the attack, pretending to inspect the panel near Coach Ten.
He had adjusted to the train’s movements before everyone else.
The false technician stopped the vehicle twenty metres from the relay.
"Relay occupants," he called. "Identify yourselves."
Nate remained behind the concrete wall beside the entrance.
"Rail marshal and two passengers."
Holt’s eyes stayed closed. Calling her a marshal was still technically true.
The technician looked toward the open door.
"We’re survivors from the forward section. We need medical support."
Iris glanced at the wounded woman.
Nate asked, "Which coach were you assigned to?"
"Six."
"What’s your employee number?"
The technician answered without hesitation.
Nate had no way to verify it.
He shifted the rifle against his shoulder.
"Why were you in Coach Eleven?"
The man stopped smiling.
The armed passenger beside him raised his head.
Iris looked at Nate.
He kept his eyes on the technician.
"You opened the access panel near Coach Ten," Nate said. "Before the connection failed."
The wounded woman moved on the rear bench. A weak pattern of energy flickered beneath her skin and vanished.
The technician looked through the relay entrance.
"You found the suspension brace."
Iris stepped farther from the doorway.
Nate said nothing.
"We need it," the man continued. "Remove it from the marshal and bring it outside."
"She dies if we remove it," Iris said.
The technician studied her uniform.
"Pulse Medic?"
"Yes."
"Then you know the woman in our vehicle doesn’t have long."
Iris looked toward the rear bench again.
The woman was conscious. Her eyes remained fixed on the relay.
"She needs a Circuit surgeon," Iris said. "The brace will only delay the collapse."
"That’s enough."
"Recovery is already coming."
"For you."
The technician pointed toward the transmitter antenna.
"Our receiver was active when you broadcast. Their unit has our identification."
"Then surrender," Nate said.
The armed man laughed once.
The technician did not.
"Bring out the brace."
Nate lowered the rifle slightly.
"No."
The man beside the technician opened the vehicle door.
A compact cutting tool hung from his belt.
The technician looked at Nate for another second.
Then he turned away.
"Inside," Nate said.
Iris pulled the relay door shut. The lock engaged, and a metal shutter descended over the narrow window.
The technician’s companion reached the platform.
A low whine began outside.
The cutting tool touched the door.
The first line of heated metal appeared around the lock.
Iris looked at the recovery estimate.
ROYAL RECOVERY — 31 MINUTES
"The door won’t last that long."
Nate opened the maintenance diagram beside the transmitter.
The main room connected to a narrow inspection pit beneath the floor. A ladder led down beside the storage shed. The passage continued beneath the western wall and ended at an exterior service hatch.
"We put Holt below."
"And then?"
"We keep them away from her."
Together, they lifted Holt and carried her toward the ladder.
The suspension brace remained secured around her chest. Its thin frame scraped against the walls as they lowered her into the pit.
Iris climbed down and guided her onto the narrow walkway.
Nate followed with the rifle.
The pit was barely wide enough for two people to pass. Pipes covered one wall, while thick cables ran beneath the ceiling.
A metal hatch stood at the western end.
Nate checked it.
Locked.
He returned to the ladder.
"I’ll stay above."
Iris caught his sleeve.
"There are two of them."
"I know."
"You’re not Holt."
"I know that too."
A heavy impact struck the door upstairs.
The lock bent inward.
Nate climbed into the main room.
He overturned the transmitter’s chair and pushed it against the entrance, though it would do little against the cutting tool.
The recovery timer changed.
28 MINUTES
Another sound came from beneath the floor.
Metal scraped near the western end of the inspection pit.
Nate froze.
The exterior hatch.
The technician knew the relay layout.
"Iris!"
He jumped down the ladder.
The hatch opened before he reached it.
The armed mercenary entered crouched, his weapon held close to his chest.
Nate fired.
The shot struck the wall and tore through the man’s shoulder instead of his chest.
He grunted but kept moving.
The narrow passage prevented him from raising his rifle properly. He drove its stock into Nate’s ribs.
Pain spread through Nate’s side.
He hit the wall and lost his grip on his own weapon.
The mercenary stepped over it.
Iris crouched beside Holt, trapped behind them.
Nate caught the man’s forearm before the rifle could turn toward her.
The mercenary slammed his forehead into Nate’s face.
Light burst across Nate’s vision.
His knees struck the walkway.
The weapon moved toward Iris.
She grabbed a steel medical probe from her pouch and drove it through the back of the mercenary’s hand.
He shouted and released the grip.
Nate pushed upward and forced the man into the low ceiling.
The mercenary’s head struck a support beam.
He remained conscious.
His elbow came down across Nate’s shoulder, then again against his neck.
Nate caught the damaged hand and twisted the probe deeper.
The man’s body jerked.
Iris pulled Holt farther along the walkway.
The mercenary reached for the knife at his belt.
Nate seized the fallen rifle by its barrel and struck him across the side of the head.
The first blow staggered him.
The second drove the side of his head against the wall.
The third dropped him across the walkway.
His fingers still dragged toward the knife at his belt.
Nate turned the rifle in his hands and fired into his chest.
The shot filled the narrow pit.
Before the ringing in his ears had cleared, Nate fired again.
The hand near the knife went still.
Iris stared at him.
Nate lowered the rifle. Blood ran from his nose onto his shirt.
A metallic crash came from the room above them.
The main door had opened.
Nate looked toward the ladder.
The false technician entered the relay.
His steps crossed the floor slowly.
He did not call for his partner.
The technician reached the opening and looked down.
His gaze passed over the dead mercenary, Nate and Iris.
Then it stopped on Holt.
"You were watching me on the train," he said.
Nate wiped the blood from his mouth.
"You weren’t convincing."
The technician drew a compact pistol.
Nate moved toward the rifle he had dropped.
The first shot struck the walkway beside his hand.
"Leave it."
Nate straightened.
The technician descended the ladder.
His pistol remained aimed at Nate’s chest.
Up close, the railway jacket was torn beneath one arm. A pale line of circulation moved through the technician’s body, but it did not form a completed loop.
Unlinked.
Professional training still made him more dangerous than Nate.
"Move away from the brace," the technician said.
Iris stood in front of Holt.
"She won’t survive the removal."
"My passenger won’t survive without it."
"She may not survive with it."
"That’s her problem."
He stepped forward.
Nate moved between them.
The pistol shifted toward his head.
"You’ve done enough," the technician said.
Nate glanced at the brace indicator.
Forty-six percent.
"You attacked a train full of candidates for two people."
"For what those two might become."
"Coach Eleven wasn’t carrying either of them."
"It was never the objective."
Nate understood.
The bodies in the coach, the captives and everyone abandoned after the derailment had only been the cost of separating the rear cars from the real targets.
The technician drove the pistol into Nate’s face.
Nate fell against the wall.
A boot struck his injured ribs before he could rise.
He caught the next kick, but the technician pulled free and hit him behind the ear.
Nate’s hands stopped responding properly.
The man stepped over him and reached Holt.
Iris blocked the walkway.
"You’ll have to disconnect the lower contact first," she said.
The technician looked at the brace.
"Do it."
"If the current reverses, it destroys the frame."
"I said do it."
Iris crouched beside Holt.
Her fingers moved toward the contact beneath the damaged side.
Nate saw her other hand close around something inside her sleeve.
The technician leaned closer.
Iris drove a medical needle into the inside of his wrist.
The pistol fired.
The bullet entered the wall above Holt.
The technician struck Iris across the face and pulled the needle free.
Nate grabbed the dead mercenary’s sidearm.
The technician turned.
Nate fired from the floor.
The round entered the man’s thigh.
His leg folded beneath him.
The pistol slipped from his hand and struck the walkway.
Iris kicked it beneath a pipe.
The technician reached Nate before he could fire again.
He caught Nate’s wrist and drove it against the wall.
The sidearm fell.
Nate pushed into him.
They hit the narrow floor together.
The technician’s fingers closed around Nate’s throat. His injured leg left blood across the metal, but his grip continued tightening.
Nate struck the wound once.
The man’s face twisted.
Nate struck it again.
The pressure around his throat weakened.
Iris grabbed the pistol from beneath the pipe and pointed it at the technician’s head.
Her hands shook.
"Let him go."
The technician looked at her.
"You won’t fire."
"I might miss your head."
She lowered the barrel toward his injured leg.
"I won’t miss that."
The technician released Nate.
They used straps from the suspension case to bind his wrists behind his back. Nate tightened them until the man stopped testing the restraint.
The recovery timer read nineteen minutes.
The woman remained inside the maintenance vehicle outside.
Iris went to her.
Nate stayed in the pit with Holt and the technician.
The man sat against the wall, his wounded leg stretched in front of him.
His gaze settled on the body near the hatch.
He looked at Nate for several seconds.
Nate did not look away.
The technician leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
Iris returned and washed blood from her hands at the maintenance sink.
"The woman?" Nate asked.
"Alive. I can’t move her."
"Will she last?"
"Long enough for recovery."
The relay began to vibrate.
This time, the movement came from the eastern rail.
The transmitter sounded above them.
ROYAL RECOVERY — ARRIVED
Nate heard brakes outside, followed by several doors opening at once.
Voices crossed the platform.
"Royal recovery! Weapons down!"
Iris raised both hands and called back.
"Three survivors in the relay! Two hostiles wounded, one dead! One critical Circuit injury!"
Boots entered the building.
The first recovery officer descended the ladder with a weapon raised. A medic followed and moved directly toward Holt.
"Who has the Circuit injury?"
Nate pointed.
"Her."
The medic examined the suspension brace.
"We need to move now."
Two more officers secured the technician. Another team rushed toward the maintenance vehicle outside.
The technician looked at Nate as they lifted him.
He said nothing.
Nate remained on the walkway while the medics carried Holt toward the ladder.
Iris followed them.
Milo’s black cases were still strapped to the maintenance cart outside.
Nate picked up the smaller one and climbed after them.
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