To Poire’s left, there was the forest. To his right, the steep, canyon walls which tumbled down into a craggy wasteland, strewn with glimpses of metal. The ancient infrastructure that had not been buried beneath the gravel and crushed stone was calcified and overgrown with hard minerals, and spewing infrequent bursts of steam.

Blink.

Everything was wrong.

The forest was gone. The muddy streams pouring out from the cover of the trees and the broad-leafed ferns, trickling over the edge of the canyon walls, all gone.

Blink.

Everything was real again. The forest, the canyon.

Blink.

Poire looked to his left, where the forest should have been. Nothing but the barren wrinkles of rock and regolith.

And the canyon walls were no longer uneven rocky cliffs, but sheer walls of stone. A perfect half-pipe, miles wide and hundreds of miles long. Carved by a terraforming barge, whose beam made stone as pliant as soft butter.

He could see the pipelines running for miles through that perfect canyon. They gleamed, naked steel in the light of the suns. Sometimes, they veered off to the side, boring into the sheer canyon walls. Venting away the heat, the steam, and the shimmering off-gas from the light fuel.

Blink.

Just the crumbling cliff walls, and a canyon filled gravel, pockmarked by giant holes and strange, stony structures.

Am I losing my mind? Poire wondered.

Laykis was walking next to him. Her metal feet crunched heavily into the wet gravel, and beads of water condensed on her metal body. It almost made it look like she was sweating in the humid air.

“Laykis,” Poire said. “What do you see down there?”

“Stone structures. They look like statues, though some are tall as towers.”

“What else?”

She paused. The soldiers - two in front, and two behind - stopped as well. They were watching Poire and Laykis. Silently. Almost mistrustfully.

“When the mist falls, I can see moss on the stones and the cliff walls. I can see metal down there, sticking out from the gravel floor.”

“You see those pipes?” Poire pointed at the canyon floor. “The ones running down the center.”

“I don’t see anything, Divine One.”

And when Poire blinked again, neither could he. Nothing, but an empty wasteland.

Laykis’s head was cocked to one side, concern in the squint of her eyes.

One of the soldiers shouted, “What’s wrong?”

“The Divine One is tired,” Laykis answered. “Perhaps we should rest.”

“I’m fine,” Poire lied. “I want to keep going.”

He was tired, yes. But he could keep up this pace for at least a few more days, without feeling it too much. His implants regulated his energy levels well enough, and as long as he had enough food to eat, he could keep going.

But the soldiers. Slow Corps. What about them?

They were pushing themselves.

For three days, they walked along the rocky, mossy path that marked the border between the edge of the forest and the cliff walls.

The Chief refused to slow down, and the soldiers never complained - at least, not that Poire could hear. Only at night, when it was too dark to see, did the Chief let them stop and make camp.

Poire kept walking, before Laykis could say anything else. Every now and then, he stared down at the canyon below. And blinked.

The past.

That’s what I’m looking at. Is that even possible?

When he blinked, somehow, he could see the past. Or something very much like it.

That night, when they made camp, the soldiers groaned as they set down their gear. Their clothes were ragged and dirty, and none of them bothered to dig any foxholes. Even the Chief found himself a spot to rest, though Poire didn’t think the Chief ever closed his eyes.

And the cyran soldier with the wounded ankle… Poire tried not to look at her. When he did, all he could see were the flies buzzing around her face. Picking at the flesh on her skull.

The past. Or the future?

When he blinked, the false sight cleared, and he could see her for what she was: just a person, covered in scales. She couldn’t hide her pain any longer. While the rest of them were laying on the boulders, taking off their boots and stretching out, she was trying to inspect her wound. Peeling away the bandage.

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Poire could smell it, even from here.

She sucked in her breath, and winced at the sight.

“You need medical attention,” Poire said to her.

She snapped her head up - she hadn’t noticed Poire was watching.

“I’ve had worse, godling,” she said, trying to hide her surprise. There was too much sweat on her forehead.

“It’s infected,” Poire said, “They’ll have to amputate your foot if you don’t do something about it.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, too sharply. The others were looking now, though none of them said anything. She could feel their eyes, and she turned herself around, not putting any weight on her injured foot. Hiding her wound from their sight.

“You need to go back,” Poire said. He could see the flies. Black, glistening bodies, twitching over her scales. “Please.”

“Don’t make this harder for me. I’m not even supposed to talk to you.”

The injured soldier’s eyes flicked over Poire’s shoulder. He turned around to see the Chief, staring at the two of them.

Poire went to find Laykis, standing at the edge of the camp. Carefully wiping the moisture out of her joints, and reapplying some kind of oil.

“She’s going to die. I can see it, Laykis. If she keeps going, she’s going to die.”

“You can see it?”

“I don’t know how. I just know. When I look at her, I just know.”

“Divine One, she is consumed by her purpose. And her pain. Perhaps you should try asking another.”

Laykis nodded at the tattooed longneck, who was sitting with his legs dangling over the edge of the cliff. Staring down into the canyon they called the Templelands. His name was Scamius, Poire thought.

A fresh wave of mist rolled down the canyon. Vapor blasted out of the holes in the ground, geysering out of the tips of the stone statues. Making a cloud that rushed along the empty canyon, sparkling strange colors as it moved.

Scamius was holding a half-eaten piece of dried meat in one hand, absently chewing as he stared down into the canyon. He didn’t even turn as Poire stepped up behind him.

“What is this place?” the Scamius said. “Can you tell me? Why is it here?”

“My people put it here,” Poire said.

Now, Scamius did turn around, his long neck serpentining in place. His hard eyes sweeping up Poire’s body, up to his face. The tattoos on his neck were not just white ink, some were faded scars that criss-crossed up the curve of his neck.

“Tell me what’s down there,” Scamius said. Tell me why the people who go down into the templelands rarely come out the same.”

“I don’t know,” Poire admitted. “I just know you shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.”

Scamius made a sound, not quite a laugh. And turned back to the canyon.

“Please,” Poire tried again. “She’s going to die.”

“Soldier’s duty,” he said. “It’s what we’re made to do.”

“Why?”

“Same reason every dullscale picks up a weapon. They promise us Citizenship. Citizens can vote. Citizens can work for themselves. A citizen has the right to be a person, and not a servant for the rest of your gods-damned life. The glitterskins own everything. They own us. Maybe they’ll own you, one day.”

He spat, down into the canyon. Watched it fall. Watched it disappear in the sparse cloud of mist.

“Your compatriot. She deserves to live,” Poire said. “Everyone does.”

“Nobody deserves nothing. Not even you, godling. Besides, she’s made her choice. Even if she wanted to go back, she’d have to get through the Chief.”

“Doesn’t he understand? This place wasn’t made for you.”

‘I’ve yet to find a place that was. Look, you want to chane the Chief’s mind? The only way that’s happening is if he gets a direct order from Vorpei herself.”

“What if I run?”

Scamius barked a laugh, “You think that’ll stop him? Hells, you could shoot him and he’d crawl his way through this canyon to find you. Give it up, godling. Stick your business, and let us deal with ours.”

“Even if it ends in death?”

Scamius shrugged. And said nothing more.

But Poire thought he could see a flicker of fear on the soldier’s face.

The next morning, Poire was awakened by the sound of buzzing. There was a single black blow fly, circling and landing and circling on the stones nearest the injured soldier. He tried blinking, but no matter what, it was still there.

The injured solider was sweating more than usual, and when she got to her feet, she collapsed back to the ground, hissing with pain. The Chief came over to check her out. When he touched the wound, she screamed. Scamius gave her something for the pain, and the Chief pretended not to notice.

After everyone else packed up, the Chief said, “Get moving. We’ll be right behind you.”

So Laykis and Poire started walking, and the others joined them, leaving the Chief and the injured soldier behind. Poire was feeling sick, and when Laykis tried to get him to talk, he just shook his head.

They walked, until the Chief was out of sight. A wet, misty wind blew up from the canyon, making the tight curls of Poire’s hair almost drip with water. Mist beaded on Laykis’ metal, dripping from her back and her fingers and down the outside of her thighs as she walked.

Now, the false vision was there, all the time. He didn’t have to blink to see it. At first, it made him dizzy, but he grew used to seeing two worlds, the past laying underneath the present. What was causing this?

The mist?

The pipes were thicker now, and there were dozens of them, running alongside each other. The mist was so thick here, it covered the canyon. It was starting to climb up the cliff walls, so that thin, white tongues of mist licked at their feet.

Poire sent an impulse to his liquid armor, via his wrist implant. It responded almost immediately, that cold metal sliding up his neck. Covering his mouth, his nose, his eyes. It made the air hotter, it made him sweat more. But there was something about the mist…

Even the soldiers were acting different. Maybe it was just the exhaustion, but they seemed more irritable. When they spoke to each other, they were not kind, and they kept touching at their temples like something was pounding in their heads.

Poire heard his footsteps first. The Chief was trotting along the gravel, rushing to catch up with them. He was alone. Nobody asked any questions about their injured compatriot, and the Chief offered no answers.

Poire thought he could see a new, dark stain on the pant leg of the Chief’s uniform.

It was past midday when the forest disappeared into the mist. Sometimes, a wind would blow the fog away, and they could see down below.

The path did not so much as slope away, as it disappeared completely.

Scamius almost fell over, when Laykis caught him. He didn’t thank her - instead, jerking his arm away as if he were afraid of her. He stared at her, drunkenly. As if he couldn’t remember who she was, or what she was doing there.

“This is it,” the Chief said, “This is where we go down.”

“When?” One of them asked. One of the whiskerfolk. There were bags under his eyes, and his whiskers drooped almost down to his chest.

“Now,” the Chief said. He was talking to his soldiers, but he was staring at Poire.

So this was it. Poire could feel it. This is the point of no return.

He sucked in his breath, steeling himself for the arguments that would surely come.

“You can’t go any further,” Poire said. The armor amplified his voice, making it sound harsh and metallic. “This place isn’t meant for your kind.”

The Chief did not argue. None of them did.

Instead, the Chief merely took a step forward, and began the steep trek down the cliff. Down, into the swirling, white mist.

Poire blinked.

The soldiers followed their Chief, and Laykis started after them. She stopped only when she saw that Poire wasn’t moving.

“They’ve made their choice,” Laykis.

“It’s the wrong choice.”

“How can you know this, Divine One?”

“The flies. They’re covered in flies.”