Seven people moved through the convergence chamber with the deliberate attention of people who understood that the floor was a minefield of a different kind—not mechanical, not hidden, but documented in blue light that made no editorial decisions about what it illuminated.
The decision to move had already been made. Tank had looked at the side passage, assessed it in the way he assessed everything—with the focused economy of someone who had long ago stopped performing deliberation and had made the actual thing a faster process—and said move.
Whisper moved toward it immediately, reading the walls as they went with continuous fluency. Not the fluency of study. The fluency of necessity, which was a different thing and faster.
The cold shifted while they crossed.
Not sharply. Not the precipitous drop that announced the Harvester's direct proximity. This was different. Fractional.
