The Surrogate’s Blade
His eyes find mine in the rising white glare.
“The Market Correction has started. Not on the wing this time. On you, on me, on the house, on the child, on all of it at once. He is closing the account in full.”
The door gives at last. The final sheet of titanium sloughs off the frame in a slow wave of glowing slag, and through the gap it leaves steps the White-Glow Sovereign, and the office floods entirely with its light.
It is shaped like a tall man and it moves like nothing human and like nothing the grey ones were either, no hitches, no recovery gaps, but also none of the syrup-slow readability I get from human motion when I drop into silvered time.
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