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Up, across the slippery floor, Ashlock grabs the dead drive by its cable and shatters it with the blade of her rigid palm. A shoulder under Tach’s limp tall body and a fireman’s heave: she leans forward into the sprint, down the dark long tunnel.

Silent now but for the tight whistle of breath. Ashlock fumbles her stupid phone from her breast pocket and runs by its bobbing glow. The island begins sobbing, a sound so low it blurs vision, thunder in the cave of her chest.

Ten steps from light of the loading bay, the ice gives way beneath them.