Chapter 5 - The Alignment of the Loom
The sun did not rise over the Penobscot ridge at six o'clock on Friday morning; it simply turned the low valley fog a uniform, slate-grey shade that made the limestone pillars of the hospital gates look like unpainted concrete blocks against the wet pine woods.
By six-fifteen, the private transport unit—a customized medical van fitted with twin independent generator loops and a high-efficiency particulate air lock—was backed into the ambulance bay of the north pavilion. The twin incubators containing Noah and Lily were moved across the concrete platform by four specialist nurses, their movements slow and systematic under the direction of the military medical detail.
I stood on the platform wearing my gray linen skirt and a new wool coat that Harrison had brought down from the Fall River station. The incision across my stomach was bound with three layers of surgical tape, but the pain had settled into a dull, manageable friction that didn't alter the stability of my step.
Daniel Hayes stood behind the security fence near the gatehouse, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers to shield them from the cold mist coming off the river. His town car had been repossessed by the clearinghouse marshal at midnight; his girlfriend Rachel sat on a wooden bench near the bus stop, her shoulders wrapped in a cheap grey polyester blanket provided by the county clinic.
"The flight plan is clear to the Bangor reservation clinic, Audrey," General Vance said, walking down the ramp with his long, un-hurried stride, his fingers holding the iron key to the Fall River pattern safe. "The infants will have the clean air from the spruce hills before the noon feeding cycle begins. The looms are already being re-strung for the spring production run."
I looked out through the white wall of the fog at the long, gray line of the river channel where the first timber barge of the new Vance division was moving slowly toward the outer islands. The corporate labels had been removed from the hull plates; the new registration markers were executed in clean, high-visibility white ink that recorded the single lineage line: V.T.T. — Unit One.
"They're going to be strong, Grandpa," I said, my hand closing around the grey casing of the satellite phone as the nurse signaled that the transport seals were complete.
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"They have the Vance bone structure, Audrey," the General said, his slate-grey eyes catching the first pale yellow light of the sun as it cleared the ridge. "They don't need the maritime syndicate's permission to breathe. Let’s clear the lane; the winter frost is coming down from the gap, and the kitchen fire needs to be stoked before the shift logs are closed."
We entered the rear compartment of the transport wagon together, the heavy iron doors rolling back with a clean, pneumatic hiss that shut out the sound of the highway traffic below. The signatures were verified, the asset quarantine was locked into place, and the primary command line was finally stabilized for the winter session.
