Chapter 37: Time Left

Chapter 37: Time Left

Silas had paid a considerable amount of money to sit in a chair that was less comfortable than his own.

It reclined, at least. A narrow instrument rested against his wrist, and the cup beside it contained the bitter remains of his first treatment. He had asked for water afterward. Kerr had brought him water and then taken away the slate on which he was checking his Talent’s remaining time.

"You can have it back when we finish," she said.

"I wasn’t doing anything strenuous."

"You were moving your hand every time the reading settled."

He put his arm back where she wanted it.

The clock above the examination-room door advanced another minute. He could almost feel the copy running out at home, though that was ridiculous. Sitting here or lying face-first on his rug made no difference to the deadline.

Lydia was gone for a semester. He had made quite certain of that.

Excellent work. Very satisfying. Terrible for borrowing her Talent.

Kerr adjusted the instrument and looked at his circulation readings. "Any warmth in your arm?"

"A little."

"Pain?"

"No."

She recorded his answer. Silas watched a small change move across the display without understanding whether it was good.

"Can you tell if it’s working?" he asked.

"I can tell you’re tolerating the first dose. Tomorrow’s examination will tell me more." Kerr glanced at him. "There’s no useful reason to stare at it."

"I’ve already paid. I might as well get to watch."

That earned him a brief smile. She left the screen facing him.

By the time she released him, his fingers were warm and his mouth tasted dreadful. Nothing else had changed enough to notice. He accepted the instructions, booked the follow-up, and went to Garrick’s shop carrying the adamantite case close beneath his coat.

The smith had cleared a place on his counter. Four wooden pieces lay beside the drawing, fitted into a short, straight practice form.

"Separate those," Garrick said before Silas had greeted him.

Silas looked from the blanks to the old man. "Good morning to you as well."

"Morning. Separate those."

He reached with Remote Grasp. Each piece needed a slight turn before withdrawing. The first pair came apart neatly; he pulled the third crooked and felt it catch.

"Exactly," Garrick said.

"I haven’t complained yet."

"You were about to." Garrick took the caught pieces, released them by hand, and showed him the angled faces inside. "Your old fittings let you begin a turn before everything was properly seated. Then you put force through them and wondered why they complained."

Silas remembered the awkward hitch during his handling test. "So these stop that."

"They give you a clean position to feel. You still have to reach it."

The smith placed the blanks down again. This time Silas joined them slowly, checking the resistance through each hold. When the final piece settled, the longer form stayed straight as he lifted it.

Garrick pushed the drawing toward him.

The expensive metal was marked in small, deliberate sections: the joint faces, collars, and places Silas had repeatedly stressed while changing direction. Two hundred grams for the set, with the rest kept aside. The ordinary metal around those sections would also need replacing where the prototype’s cheap construction could no longer support the design.

Silas read the estimate twice.

A few weeks ago, he would have had to put it down and leave. Now he checked the workmanship terms, asked when the set would be ready, and found himself enjoying how ordinary the answers sounded.

"I want the remaining metal returned separately," he said.

"You’ll get a weight record for both portions." Garrick tapped the drawing. "And you’ll let me finish this before you arrive with six new ideas."

"There were only four pieces."

"There were twelve ideas."

Silas set the case on the counter and opened it. Garrick’s hand stopped over the drawing. For a few seconds, the old man simply looked.

Then he fetched the scale.

They completed the receipt, and Silas left his prototype with the metal. On the way out, he glanced back. Garrick had already brought a brighter lamp over the workbench and was looking through the proposed fittings again.

Silas almost told him not to stay up all night over it. Considering who would be giving the advice, he kept walking.

At home, he ate before clearing the rug. He had enough time for a short practice session and no excuse to waste it flinging himself at furniture.

He placed two marks on the floor, less than a full stride apart. The first attempt at Burst Motion brought him to the second mark. His landing was sound, but the extra effort of stopping tightened the back of his leg.

Silas sat down and waited. He disliked resting between attempts more than he disliked failing. With failure, at least something was happening.

His book lay open beside the chair. He read half a page, lost the thread, and went back to the start.

On the next attempt, he used less force and finished with his feet in a position from which he could move normally. That felt useful. No grab for the counter, no awkward shuffle afterward. He allowed himself one more repetition before putting the rug back.

The following day’s check gave Kerr no reason to stop the treatment. It also gave her no reason to increase his practice allowance, despite the question Silas had tried to make sound casual.

He returned home with another dose scheduled and spent most of the afternoon studying. As evening approached, he cleared the floor again.

[Burst Motion — Assimilation: 24%]

The final short step landed cleanly.

Silas stayed where he was, breathing a little harder than the distance justified. He wanted to do it again, faster this time. Instead, he lowered himself onto the bed and watched the remaining minutes pass while he drank.

The Talent disappeared before his pulse had quite settled.

[Burst Motion — Temporary copy expired]

[Recorded assimilation: 24%]

[Temporary Talent Slot: Empty]

He reached for it once. The familiarity remained—the set of his hips, the small forward intent—but there was nothing to answer.

"Fuck."

He knew how the rule worked. He had still hoped it would feel less like losing something.

The last marks came off the floor under a damp cloth. Twenty-four percent would be waiting if Lydia ever entered his room again. There was no useful way to arrange that now, and he had no intention of spending his evening imagining a reunion neither of them wanted.

His terminal sounded while he was rinsing the cloth.

A compulsory practical had been added to his schedule for the following week: field readiness, casualty extraction. He opened the attendance conditions first. Absence required formal medical deferral. His existing restrictions were already listed beside an approved role in the assessment.

Then he checked the team assignment.

Mira Duforte. Bram Ostley.

Alden Cross.

Silas dried his hands slowly.

The last time he and Alden had stood on a marked practice ground together, he had won by throwing him out of it.

This time they were being graded as a team.

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