The Roach God

The concrete dust told him three things, and he had them sorted before he reached the reporting crawl.

The first was that the date on the wall had never been a promise.

It had been somebody’s plan, written down in a quarter that was now a season old, and plans moved.

He had built two months of thinking on a scratched mark as though it were a law.

The second was that whatever was idling in the lot was preparation, not demolition.

Machines that bring a building down do not idle.

They arrive on a morning and the building is gone by evening.

What idles is survey equipment, fencing, the slow bureaucratic front edge of a thing that has been approved and is now being scheduled.

The third was that he had somewhere between four days and four weeks, with no way to narrow it, and that every plan he made from here had to work at both ends of that range.

He spent the rest of that first day proving the second point to himself rather than trusting it, because a conclusion reached at speed in bad air was exactly the kind he had just been punished for acting on.

He went up three times.

He mapped where the sound came from and where it did not.

He established that the idling was intermittent, that it stopped at dark and resumed with the light, and that there was a second, lighter vibration accompanying it that ran along the building’s northern face in straight lines — someone walking a perimeter with something heavy, over and over, which was survey work or fencing and was in either case a thing that happens before rather than during.

Then, and only then, he let himself act on it.

He went to Thresh first, and did something he had not done since the map: he asked for an opinion rather than information.

If you had four days, he sent, and a route that has never been walked to the end, and no way to reach the eight people walking it — what would you do.

Move, Thresh sent immediately.

Into unconfirmed ground.

Yes.

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You watched a god do exactly that, Sacha sent, more sharply than he intended. You told me about it. He took the short road because it was short.

He took it because it was short, Thresh agreed. You would take it because the building is coming down. Those are not the same decision and I am tired of you treating them as though they were.

That landed harder than it should have, and Sacha turned it over for most of an hour before he understood why:

because it was accurate, and because he had been using Thresh’s dead colony as a reason not to decide things for two weeks.

There was a version of caution that was diligence.

There was another version that was outsourcing your judgement to somebody else’s catastrophe, and he had crossed from one to the other somewhere around the corridor run without noticing.

All right, he sent. Then help me build it.

What they built over the next two days was not the staged crossing Khrr had drawn. Khrr’s plan had assumed time, verification, and a first group that came back. Sacha had none of those.

So he inverted it.

Instead of three groups on separate nights, he built one continuous column with the nursery in the middle — the most protected position in a moving line rather than the second-safest position in a sequence of them. Instead of waiting for confirmation, he built the column so that it could stop, hold, and reverse at four pre-designated points along the gaps, each one large enough to shelter sixty-one bodies for two days.

It was worse than Khrr’s plan in every respect except one. It could start tomorrow.

The four hold-points cost him most of a night to place, working from Thresh’s map and Khrr’s marks and a great deal of guessing.

Two of them were on ground the map showed as solid.

One was in the smear.

The fourth was the chamber with the old cistern in it, which Khrr had measured for no operational reason whatsoever and which had turned out, three weeks later, to be the only confirmed shelter of known dimensions anywhere along the route.

He thought about that for a while — about a lieutenant who had carried home a measurement that was worth nothing, because the god would want it — and then he stopped thinking about it, because Khrr was eight days into unmapped ground and thinking about Khrr was not currently a productive use of anything.

[Sanctuary: preparation for territorial abandonment detected.

Faith: unstable.]

He read that twice.

Abandonment.

Of course.

The claim was the ground.

He had spent eight lives and two months making a cellar into a Sanctuary, and the system, which did not care about wrecking balls, was going to score him on walking away from it exactly as though he had lost it.

So I’ll lose the rank, he thought, and found the thought less frightening than it should have been. Rank is the long game. The building is the short one.

He had told himself that at the boundary of duct and warren, weeks ago, and had not understood it then as anything but a comfort. He understood it now as an instruction.

What he could not get comfortable with was the shape of the trade. He was about to walk away from ground that eight of his people had died for — Runner among them, and the two from Increvable who had held the chokepoint’s rear exactly as designed — and there was no ceremony available for that and no one to explain it to.

The colony would move because the god moved.

Sixty-one bodies would follow him out of a cellar that had cost more than any of them knew, and not one of them would understand that it had been paid for.

He decided, somewhere in the second night, that this was probably a thing gods carried and did not put down.

It was not a comfortable conclusion.

He was beginning to notice that very few of them were.