PART 17
We reached the base of the Nova Scotia mountains by nightfall,
the car finally dying with a hiss of steam from the radiator.
The air here was different from Blackwood Harbor,
it didn't taste like salt,
but like old iron and dry lightning,
the kind of air that precedes a violent summer storm.
Above us,
perched on a jagged peak of black granite,
sat the old observatory,
its metallic dome rusted and dark against the starlight.
"We have to climb,"
I said,
stepping out of the car and feeling the familiar,
rhythmic vibration running through the soles of my boots.
This node was different;
it wasn't buried deep underground,
it was elevated,
reaching up toward the sky as if trying to catch transmissions from the stars.
Daniel grabbed our packs,
his flashlight beam cutting through the gloom,
revealing a narrow path made of broken shale that wound up the mountainside.
As we began the ascent,
the world around us started to lose its resolution,
the rocks at the edge of the beam looking pixelated and sharp.
"Don't look at the edges,"
I warned Daniel,
taking his hand to keep him steady as a gust of wind threatened to push us off the trail.
"If you look at them,
your mind will try to fill in the missing details,
and that's how the system gets inside your head."
"It's already inside my head,"
he muttered,
his voice shaking with exhaustion and fear.
"Every time I close my eyes,
I see those damn monitors,
Amelia,
I see your grandfather's face looking at me."
I squeezed his hand,
feeling a terrible guilt wash over me because I had dragged him into this cosmic nightmare.
He was a normal man,
built for a normal life of predictable days and quiet nights,
not for navigating the crumbling infrastructure of reality.
We reached the summit,
the heavy iron doors of the observatory standing slightly ajar,
creaking in the wind like a dying breath.
Inside,
the air was perfectly still,
and the floor was covered in a thick layer of dust that showed no signs of human footprints.
Except for one set.
A single trail of boots led from the entrance straight toward the center of the room,
where a massive,
antique telescope pointed directly at the ceiling.
The footprints didn't stop at the telescope;
they led right up to the base of the pedestal and then simply ended,
as if the person had walked into the solid metal and become part of the machine.
I approached the control console,
which was covered in mechanical gears and brass dials instead of the digital screens of Blackwood Harbor.
"This is an analog node,"
I realized,
brushing the dust away from a large,
circular plate that had a single keyhole in the center.
May you like
"It doesn't use software,
it uses geometry."
