The Fire at Site Omega Was Never Extinguished

[suspenseful music] It's the shaking that got me out of bed.

At first, not an earthquake.

I've lived through those in the north.

You feel them in your spine, but this juddery, impatient force that rattled my teeth and the old lamp by the window.

You don't get visitors after midnight in Corluck except on the worst nights.

I grabbed the flashlight I keep taped to my nightstand, shining it toward the doorway.

The knocking came again, steady as hammer blows.

I stumbled over work boots, my old knee popping, wincing, already angry, already afraid, and not awake enough to choose which was worse.

I cracked the door.

The wind slapped my face sharp enough to wake the dead.

Two figures waited there on my porch, one tall and hard aligned, edges blurred by parka hood and rimed ice beard, the other shrouded by excess government fabric, hands neatly gloved, clipboard hugged to chest in a gesture that screamed not from here.

I took in the black stamped badge, AGENCY in block capitals, no name, no specifics.

Corluck never gets diplomats, only trouble.

"My name is Moore.

Sorry for the hour." The voice had the neural flatness of someone practiced at telling people what they'd rather not hear.

My eyes adjusted.

He wasn't a young man despite his crisp movements.

Fifty maybe, but eroded, not aged.

"I need to speak with you," he said quickly, already judging how much resistance he'd meet.

Behind him, the tall figure just watched the snow drift.

"You're Arthur Geller, yes?" "Was last I checked." My breath made ragged fog in the weak porch light.

"What's this about?" He palmed me a folder, thick, already moisture warped.

"There's been a signal from Site Omega, distress code.

Our monitors caught an auto broadcast." I stared at him, then at the folder, half afraid to touch it.

"Site Omega's been sealed sixteen years.

[suspenseful music] It's the shaking that got me out of bed.

At first, not an earthquake.

I've lived through those in the north.

You feel them in your spine, but this juddery, impatient force that rattled my teeth and the old lamp by the window.

You don't get visitors after midnight in Corluck except on the worst nights.

I grabbed the flashlight I keep taped to my nightstand, shining it toward the doorway.

The knocking came again, steady as hammer blows.

I stumbled over work boots, my old knee popping, wincing, already angry, already afraid, and not awake enough to choose which was worse.

I cracked the door.

The wind slapped my face sharp enough to wake the dead.

Two figures waited there on my porch, one tall and hard aligned, edges blurred by parka hood and rimed ice beard, the other shrouded by excess government fabric, hands neatly gloved, clipboard hugged to chest in a gesture that screamed not from here.

I took in the black stamped badge, AGENCY in block capitals, no name, no specifics.

Corluck never gets diplomats, only trouble.

"My name is Moore.

Sorry for the hour." The voice had the neural flatness of someone practiced at telling people what they'd rather not hear.

My eyes adjusted.

He wasn't a young man despite his crisp movements.

Fifty maybe, but eroded, not aged.

"I need to speak with you," he said quickly, already judging how much resistance he'd meet.

Behind him, the tall figure just watched the snow drift.

"You're Arthur Geller, yes?" "Was last I checked." My breath made ragged fog in the weak porch light.

"What's this about?" He palmed me a folder, thick, already moisture warped.

"There's been a signal from Site Omega, distress code.

Our monitors caught an auto broadcast." I stared at him, then at the folder, half afraid to touch it.

"Site Omega's been sealed sixteen years.