The hatch sealed behind me with a hollow boom. The sound echoed down the chute, swallowed by darkness and the distant grinding of machinery.

  I stood on a narrow metal platform. Below, a conveyor belt moved at steady speed, carrying debris toward a pulsing orange light at the far end. The air shifted between cold and hot as ventilation cycles pushed through the shaft. Ozone and lubricant and something organic, rotting.

  The transfer line. Waste from Sector 7-C, processed here before being sent to Compliance.

  I stepped onto the belt. The surface was uneven, scattered with scrap and shredded material. My boots sank into soft patches, crunched over hard ones. The interface plate slapped against my chest with each step.

  The belt carried me forward. I didn't have to walk. But standing still meant being an easier target.

  Behind me, a hatch clanged open. Then another. The Salvage Team was sealing bulkheads, cutting off routes. They knew where the transfer line led. They didn't need to chase me through it. They could wait at the exit.

  A grinding noise ahead. The belt narrowed, funneling debris through a compression unit. Massive rollers waited, their surfaces stained dark. Anything that didn't fit would be crushed before reaching the exit.

  I looked at the interface plate. Too wide to fit through the compression gap.

  I pulled it from my chest strap, held it against my stomach, and lay flat on the belt. Debris scraped my back. Something sharp sliced through my shirt. I kept my arms wrapped around the plate, protecting it with my body.

  The rollers passed inches above me. The compression unit roared, vibrating through the belt, through my bones. Then I was through, sliding down a short drop into a sorting chamber.

  I stood, gasping. My back was wet. I didn't check how badly.

  The chamber was circular, with multiple chutes leading off at different angles. Labels above each: RECLAMATION, INCINERATION, COMPLIANCE PROCESSING. The Compliance chute glowed green. Active. Ready.

  Heavy hanging chains covered the upper walls, blocking any direct flight path for drones. The crushers below generated enough magnetic interference to scramble sensors. That was why the drone hadn't come in after me.

  I walked toward the Compliance chute.

  Then the lights flickered. A new sound joined the machinery: rapid footsteps, multiple sets, moving in coordinated rhythm.

  Vasquez's voice echoed through the chamber, amplified by a suit speaker.

  "Transfer line sealed. He's in the sorting hub. Kessler, take the east chute. I'll take west. Drone, hold the Compliance exit."

  "I want him." Kessler's voice. Closer.

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  "You'll get him. Follow procedure."

  Footsteps split. One set headed east. One west. And somewhere, the hum of rotors as the drone positioned itself at the only exit I could reach.

  I pressed myself against the wall, behind a stack of compacted waste cubes. My right hand shook. The numb fingers wouldn't stop trembling.

  The interface plate. Still in my hands. Still unpowered.

  Then I saw it. A diagnostic dock beside the Compliance chute, its cover loose. The slot was lined with small induction pins. They would power a component on contact.

  I crawled. The waste cubes provided cover, but not much. Heavy hanging chains blocked sight lines from above, but Kessler's footsteps grew louder, then stopped.

  "Vasquez. There's blood here. Fresh."

  "Track it."

  I reached the dock. I pressed the interface plate into the slot. The induction pins made contact. A soft hum.

  [OMEGA-NULL COMPONENT DETECTED]

  [BYPASS AUTHORIZATION GRANTED]

  [COMPLIANCE CHUTE: EMERGENCY ACCESS UNLOCKED]

  The green light above the chute flickered, then died. A smaller hatch beside it slid open, revealing a maintenance crawlway. Not the main exit. A service bypass.

  I pulled the plate free and shoved myself into the crawlway just as Kessler rounded the waste cubes.

  He saw me. His face twisted.

  "You're dead."

  I kept moving. The crawlway was narrow, barely wide enough for my shoulders. Behind me, Kessler's bulk jammed in the entrance. He roared, fired something into the tunnel. A net. It caught on the walls two meters behind me, thrashing and sparking.

  I crawled until my arms gave out. Then I crawled more.

  The wind outside the relay tower was not empty.

  Marcus knelt in the shadow of the foundation. The snow around him was undisturbed, but the air tasted of ozone.

  Two hundred meters back, near the service bay entrance, a flare hissed to life. Red light washed over the snow, casting long, jagged shadows.

  Then came the sound. Not the crack of a rifle. The heavy thump-thump-thump of a grenade launcher cycling.

  Three explosions bloomed near the flare. Concrete shattered. The red light vanished under a cloud of dust and debris.

  The woman beside Marcus didn't flinch. She watched the smoke rising from the position where they had left the wounded.

  "They took the bait," she said. Her voice was flat.

  "Move," Marcus said. He didn't look back. "We bought ten minutes. Don't waste them."

  He turned and led the column into the darkness of the foundation tunnels. His hands were loose at his sides, but his eyes were dead.

  The crawlway ended at a maintenance junction. Small. Dark. A single vent grille looking out onto a larger space.

  Beyond the grille was a processing bay. Stasis-Global logos on the walls. Compliance scanners humming in standby mode. A desk. Lockers. And three figures in corporate security uniforms, waiting.

  This was the exit. The collection point. Kaelen's people.

  I lay in the darkness, trying to breathe quietly.

  A screen on the far wall flickered.

  [VARIABLE SEVEN — ARRIVAL CONFIRMED]

  [ESCORT UNIT DISPATCHED]

  The three guards straightened. One spoke into a wrist comm.

  "He's here. Transfer line exit. We'll secure him."

  They moved toward the main hatch, away from the vent.

  I had seconds.

  I pushed the grille open, dropped into the bay, and ran for the far door. Not the exit. A service door, unmarked, on the opposite wall.

  A guard turned. Shouted. I didn't stop.

  The door led to a corridor. Clean. White. Corporate. Signs pointed toward ADMINISTRATION, PROCESSING, DETENTION.

  I chose none of them. I found a supply closet, pulled the door shut behind me, and collapsed against shelves of cleaning chemicals.

  The smell was sharp, chemical, antiseptic. It burned my nose. It also masked any scent trail.

  I sat in the dark, listening to footsteps pass outside. Then more footsteps. Then silence.

  My right hand rested in my lap. The fingers were pale, waxy. No feeling.

  The interface plate was still pressed against my chest.

  I had made it out of the transfer line. I had avoided the Compliance bay. I was inside the corporate level of the facility now.

  But outside, in Sector 7-C, Marcus's team was down to four. And the enforcement team was already inside the foundation tunnels.