Unseen things buzzed among the trees as they ran up the track. Alex noticed his grandfather was leaning harder on his cane, growing short of breath. But carrying the incredible weight of the Gladstone, he still gradually trailed behind the old man.

As he struggled to keep up, something caught and tangled around Alex’s ankles, and he stumbled and fell. Bending to free his feet, he was puzzled to find it was some kind of fabric. In the dim light it took a moment to identify it as a jacket. Squinting around, Alex picked out five strange piles on the forest floor: backpacks and ropes and hiking clothes. Nearby lay a woolen bobble hat in bumblebee stripes of black and yellow.

He stared in bewilderment, remembering the climbers they’d spoken with. Somewhere beneath his confusion, another memory was struggling, but he couldn’t quite reach it.

“Alex!” His grandfather’s voice came as a concerned hiss from the darkness ahead. “Are you there? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine, I just—”

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind, we are in a bit of a hurry.”

Alex scrambled up to join him.

Coming into the parking area, Alex saw two vehicles parked together some distance beyond their Citröen. A black transit van and another vehicle, long and low, indistinct in the murk. A hulking bald man hunkered by the van, staring fixedly at them while massaging his temples. Another of the giant robots came striding from the darkness but too far away to trouble them.

As they ran for their car a vicious whine filled the breeze. Fliers came streaking from beyond the parking area, rippling fast through the rain in the frail light. Alex stopped as he saw Zia appearing blackly over the rise behind them, gesturing madly.

“If you pop the bag open,” Alex’s grandfather said, “there’s a pocket at the top. Should be a couple of salt sachets in there. Last of the emergency supply.”

Alex fumbled at the Gladstone’s silk lining. The pocket seemed empty.

“Soon as you like, Alex,” the old man said.

Alex felt the little packets, so thin his fingers almost missed them. He pulled them out.

“One should do,” his grandfather said.

“Eh?” Alex held it up. “What do you think we’re going to do with this?”

The fliers were three-quarters of the way to them.

“Well, if you could do the honors,” the old man said, proffering the wingless flier struggling like a hostage in his grip. Alex understood. He ripped open the salt and sprinkled it directly over the machine.

In the distance, Zia faltered, then started twisting sharply, as if being stung repeatedly.