Frame folds up the map, tucks it into her jacket, and hops off the fountain. Her father’s sword didn’t seem to have a sheath, so she rests it on her shoulder as she strides north, to the tunnel leading out of the hub. Though there’s usually enough space for a caravan to pass through, with room to spare. On Frame’s thirteenth birthday a pair of machine men had passed through, tall enough to reach the ceiling. They’d been dragging the carapace of a riftcrawler with ropes, the inside of the shell filled with crates and bags tied up and destined for Glenbloc.
But now, pieces of rock and cement have fallen to the ground in pillars and piles, so Frame has to wind along a freshly cratered path. Dust floats down from above.
You worry, and find yourself surprised at your capacity for worrying.
<Is it still stable?>
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