Conversation · Soona, the Programmer

That's brilliant! [Put the sabre between the horse's teeth.]

To your surprise, the sabre slides snugly between the horse's bared teeth.

Attach the sabre.

Keep it to yourself.

"How do we change the shape of the antenna?"

"What do you mean? You adjust the antenna, manually, with your hands."

"Hmm, it seems to have made some difference, but unfortunately not enough to alter the overall situation."

Pour some alcohol over the connections.

It takes a few moments, but the alcohol gradually begins to break down the oils surrounding the copper wiring.

"Is this really the time, detective?"

"It's alright, lieutenant. He's simply cleaning the connections."

More than that, you're sacrificing something precious on the altar...

"What are you doing?! Oh... cleaning the connections? Smart."

"The connections look fine to me."

"I sincerely doubt that's the case, but there's nothing I can do about it from down here. I should've cleaned them beforehand. How foolish..."

"Well, do you see anything?"

"The whole statue's covered in weird oils. I don't think it's good for the connections."

"Damn, I was afraid of that. And I didn't bring any solvents with me. How foolish..."

"The connections are pretty dirty, but I don't have anything to clean them with."

If you had something alcoholic, you could dissolve the oils, creating a cleaner (and clearer) connection.

Truth be told, you have no idea what you're looking for. It just looks like a cord attached to a piece of metal. You pick at the colourful rubber jacketing, not sure what else to do...

"Did you see that bar work?"

You don't exactly cut a lithesome figure, but after several moments of scrambling you manage to hoist yourself atop the monument.

That performance was, frankly, an embarrassment.

The metal bar is cold and slick with precipitation. For a moment it feels as though you're about to slip, but you concentrate all your attention on your pectoral muscles and squeeze...

Don't forget the lats, champ! You've got this.

The cold metal chills your bare hands. Some part of your brain tells you something is missing...

Chalk powder. Absorbs moisture and keeps your grip firm.

... but before you can decide what, you find yourself safely perched atop the monument.

The cold metal chills your bare hands. Some part of your brain tells you something is missing...

Chalk powder. Absorbs moisture and keeps your grip firm.

"No problem. I've already mastered the art of teleportation."

"You actually haven't. But you have proven that you're a relatively capable climber."

"Teleportation isn't real. Climbing is, however. With all its hazards."

"But what if I slip and fall..."

"Then you might break your neck," she replies matter-of-factly.

"But I don't know what I'm doing..."

"That's true, but I can't leave my station, so it will have to be you."

"Maybe we should try again later?"

"There won't be any later. This is our chance. Now please, keep going."

(Sigh.) "Coalition Warship Archer. Do you acknowledge? This is Firewalker."

"But someone has been maintaining it. The wiring has been repaired..."

...

"... Walker? Please acknowledge."

"Archer! This is Firewalker. Can you hear me?"

"Liebling, bitte… Er ist unser einziges Kind..."

"... Warship Archer. Please identify."

The signals are getting increasingly mixed. Plucking Archer's signal from this will be like isolating a single strand from a tangle of hair.

"It's not working." The programmer removes her sweat-drenched headphones. "The crosstalk is simply too strong."

"So what can we do about it?"

"What else is there to do? Keep trying."

"What is happening?"

"I can't say with certainty, but it sounds very much like entroponetic crosstalk. It happens sometimes when sending transmissions across long stretches of pale."

"Ah, yes, of course. That must be it..."

Outwardly, they both exude calm, but there's something disturbing about this thought to both of them.

Hold on, isn't the pale supposed to be thousands of kilometres from here?

Here it is again, this pale... If only you knew more about it.

Pale? Pale-pale-pale... Seems to be missing from your records.

"Maybe it's your twin brother?"

"I can assure you, it's not my 'twin brother'. Though it certainly does sound like me..." The lieutenant seems to wince at the sound of his own voice.