Tark and Ferrin proceeded along the tunnel. Up ahead, floor-to-ceiling bars blocked the way. They had an odd sheen, almost golden. Fifty feet beyond the hefty bars, the tunnel terminated. A white, pasty substance covered the end of the tunnel.

Ferrin rubbed the fat bars, then tapped his knuckles against one. “It makes no sound.”

Tark hit a bar with a pickax. The impact was much quieter than it should have been. “What is it?”

“I have no idea,” Ferrin said. “Some alloy. Something strong. It hasn’t corroded at all. It looks to be anchored deeply in the floor and ceiling. There is no gate. No hinges. Nobody was meant to get past here.”

Leaning on a long pry bar, Tark sighed. “Not only did they conceal the location of the mountain. Not only did they submerge the entrance under a huge lake. Not only did they erect multiple barriers. Now this.”

“That white coating at the end of the tunnel,” Ferrin pointed out. “Do you suppose it is meant to seal off the vein?”

“I sure hope so,” Tark said. “If the tunnel continues behind it, we could be in trouble.”

Ferrin studied the wall of bars. “We could attack the stone. Blast it. Try to remove a bar that way.”

“We could,” Tark said. “I’m not optimistic. These bars are thick. They were put here to stay. They enter seamlessly into the natural stone. I think they may have been inserted using Edomic.”

“The bars are spaced close together,” Ferrin said. “Even taking it slowly, I don’t think I could pass myself through piece by piece. But I can send my arms.” They crouched. Ferrin detached one arm and passed it between the bars. Tark grabbed the other and placed it through.

“Hand me the smallest pick,” Ferrin instructed.

Tark passed a pick between the bars. One of Ferrin’s hands accepted it. His arms began working their way down the tunnel, moving like overgrown, fleshy inchworms. Before long they reached the end of the tunnel. The free hand probed the white substance on the wall.

“Feels like clay,” Ferrin reported. One arm awkwardly tried using the pick. The hand without the pick tore away the white substance faster. Soon Ferrin dropped the pick and started clawing white clay from the base of the wall, one small handful at a time.

“If this is the last barrier,” Tark said, “you might reach the orantium at any second.”

“Wouldn’t that be a happy surprise?”

“I wonder if we’ll have time to notice.”

“It might be quick, but I think we’ll feel it coming.”

Gripping the cool metal bars, Tark watched tensely as the minutes passed. The hands could not reach high, so they gradually excavated a tunnel at the base of the white wall. More minutes dragged by. “I wish I could help.”

Sweat beaded on Ferrin’s brow. “Me too.”

Tark chuckled. “Want me to fetch water?”

“You might miss the blast.”

“I think I’ll notice.”

“Sure, that would be nice.”

Taking the canteen, Tark retraced their steps, clamoring through rubble and walking along manmade tunnels until he reached the place where he had entered the air pocket. He stared at the dark water. Did Ferrin really need his help? Tark glanced over his shoulder at the empty tunnel, then back at the water. What if he made a run for it? Might he get away? Probably not. The explosion should happen soon.

Tark shook his head. The musings were reflexive. He had run away more than once in his life. The thoughts were familiar, but today he had little desire to heed them. The displacer could not be trusted to finish the job. He had to stay and see this done. It was his chance to make things right, the chance he had always wanted.

Crouching, Tark lowered his lips and drank directly from the water. Then he filled the canteen.

On the way back, Tark thought about others who had sacrificed to make this moment possible. He thought about the members of the Giddy Nine. He thought about Tristan, who had died as they’d escaped Harthenham. He thought about Chandra, and Raz, and Dorsio, and the oracle. He thought about Drake. He thought about Io trying to protect Rachel. He thought about Ferrin, down here with him in the dark, digging toward a cataclysm.

When Tark reached Ferrin, the white tunnel at the base of the wall went back four feet. “You’re a good man,” Tark said.

“That might be something of an exaggeration,” Ferrin replied, “but under the circumstances I’ll take it.”

Tark jutted his chin toward where Ferrin’s arms were working. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“You want a drink?”

“I’ll need your help.”

Ferrin knelt, and Tark poured water into his mouth. After pausing to let him swallow, he poured more. “Keep going?”

“Sure.”

Tark shared water until Ferrin had drunk his fill. Down the tunnel, the hands and arms kept digging.

“Are you afraid to die?” Tark asked, taking a swig himself before setting aside the canteen.

Ferrin paused. Tark glimpsed something in his eye, a quiet struggle to remain in control. Maybe a hint of worry. “Yes, if I’m being honest. But we all have to go. I was trying to think of a better way than this. I couldn’t.”

Tark nodded. “I hear you. Ever play stones?”

“Sure.”

“My father taught me the game. I’m no expert. Neither was he. But he taught me that sometimes you have to sacrifice a stone or two to gain a strategic advantage. He told me that sacrifice means trading something good for something better. It stuck with me. I guess it applies today.”

Ferrin gave a nod. “I suppose it does. In fact, I find that a very rational way to look at it.”

Tark sighed. “I feel like I’ve cheated death a lot.”

“I could say the same. I suspect both of us have run out of extra chances.”

“I hope so. For the sake of the battle, I mean.”

Ferrin furrowed his brow. “What have we here?”

“What?” Tark asked, peering at the end of the tunnel.

“I think I’ve made it through the white stuff,” Ferrin said. “There’s something behind it. Something flat. Not stone. It feels like wood. Slightly spongy, though not as soft as cork.”

“Can you tear it apart?”

“I’m trying.” Ferrin winced. “Just tore a fingernail. Ouch, and another one. It feels pretty firm. Dare we hope this is truly the end?”