Chapter 368: Someone Waiting

The next express bus leaves in four minutes.

I find that out after losing another half minute at the terminal, comparing routes that no longer work for me. The regular line would reach District 3 long after Rhayne’s Reentry. The express costs more, but it uses the high-speed interdistrict corridors and skips most of the stops between districts.

I buy the ticket.

The machine debits the fare, assigns a seat, and projects the route on the screen. I check the arrival estimate against the clock one last time before heading for the platform.

It’s tight.

The bus is already waiting when I get there, its silver body suspended a few inches above the boarding platform. An automated announcement greets passengers while the doors verify identification through built-in readers. I put my hand on the sensor, wait for the green light, and step in.

The cold air hits me immediately.

The interior is cleaner than most public transport in District 4. Individual seats, adjustable dividers, small information screens on the armrests, and windows that regulate incoming light on their own. I find my place near the back, sit by the window, and fasten the belt.

Passengers are still boarding.

I check the time again.

The doors close and the vehicle leaves the platform without any audible sound from the engine.

For the first few minutes, District 4 goes past the window in familiar pieces. Concrete housing blocks, hydration stations, faded advertising, and small businesses squeezed under the elevated transit lines. A woman waits outside a distribution center with two empty containers, watching the line in front of her. Further on, maintenance drones work on a damaged section of sidewalk while pedestrians use a temporary walkway in the heat.

I’ve known these streets since I was a kid.

After you come back from Thirstfall, the streets always look worse than before.

Maybe just because we spend too much time in a world where water exists without anyone having to authorize its distribution.

The bus joins the interdistrict highway and accelerates. The buildings start thinning out, replaced by industrial facilities, warehouses, solar complexes, and stretches of land that once belonged to agricultural zones.

The highway itself is impressive.

Autonomous systems maintain the surface, while embedded markers organize traffic into almost perfect flows. Large cargo transports occupy dedicated lanes and pass under suspended signals that adjust routes according to congestion. Every few kilometers, service stations display asphalt temperature, atmospheric conditions, and emergency water reserves.

Humanity built a transport network capable of moving entire populations across a dying continent with almost no human involvement.

Outside it, there’s almost nothing left to grow.

I remember the old recordings of highways in what they used to call the United States, the ones I watched when I was younger. Some were from before the Global Redistribution, when the planet still had countries with borders people argued about.

The roads in those recordings looked surprisingly ordinary.

Cars, trucks, bridges, businesses at the edge of the road. There was grass on the shoulders, covering the embankments and running up to the fences. Trees grew beyond it, sometimes forming green walls that followed the highway for kilometers. In other videos, the road cut through forests or crossed rivers wide enough to need entire bridges.

The first time I saw those images, I assumed they’d been recorded in environmental preserves.

I only found out later that most of it was ordinary roadside scenery.

People traveled through those places without paying attention to the vegetation. They rolled the windows down, complained about traffic, stopped for coffee, and kept driving. Rain could ruin a vacation. A cloudy afternoon could disappoint someone who’d planned to spend the day outdoors.

I wonder what those people would think of us.

The bus passes a stretch of open ground where an old drainage canal runs alongside the highway. The concrete walls are still intact, but sand covers most of the bottom. Dead vegetation has piled up around the supports of a collapsed footbridge, and beyond it the metal frames of old agricultural facilities come into view.

The fields have turned into an uneven expanse of dry ground.

The wind pushes sediment against the highway’s outer barrier. A maintenance vehicle runs along the shoulder, collecting the deposits before they reach the traffic lanes.

The machines keep doing their work.

The soil stopped doing its own.

I lean my head back against the seat and watch the landscape.

We can send human consciousness to another world. Preserve bodies for years inside medical tanks, transport matter between dimensions, and build equipment capable of manipulating forces our ancestors would have called magic.

Even so, a tree growing on its own at the edge of a road has become evidence that somebody is paying to keep it alive.

There’s something deeply embarrassing about that.

Our technology works. It works extraordinarily well. The bus under my feet is proof of it. The government can maintain transport networks, energy systems, clinical infrastructure, and the complicated machinery that holds up billions of people.

The problem is the work it takes to make an ordinary existence possible.

Water became a strategic resource. Rain depends on acquiring objects from Thirstfall. Entire districts organize their survival around supply schedules, atmospheric engineering, and how many Divers come back carrying something useful.

We developed the ability to buy weather.

I just sold a Rank B WaterStrand for fifty thousand GNC.

Somewhere in District 4, that filament will end up being used to make rain fall on people who have spent most of their lives waiting for water.

Fifty thousand GNC felt like a fortune when I put the card in my mother’s hand. Sitting in front of that window, watching sand pile against the highway barrier, the number starts to feel strangely small.

It’s the price of a little relief.

The bus passes a large advertisement showing a woman standing in a field of green grass. She’s holding a glass of clear water and smiling under a blue sky.

The slogan promises a better tomorrow through sustainable resource management.

Beyond the board, the real field is empty.

I look away.

For all its dangers, Thirstfall has oceans. Forests. Rain. Places where water can kill someone simply by existing in excessive quantity.

We go into that world because this one is drying out.

And every year, more people stay down there, because coming back means returning to a planet that offers less and less.

I think about Rhayne.

She spent more than two years diving, in Thirstfall time. Even accounting for the difference between the worlds, that’s a long time to leave a body behind.

She told me she didn’t know whether that place would still feel like home.

Looking out the window, I start to understand the question better.

The arrival announcement pulls me out of my thoughts.

[District 3 — Central Transit Terminal.]

The bus slows as the highway drops toward a large transit complex. Several lines converge under elevated platforms, and cargo drones move between the boarding areas carrying luggage and small packages.

I check the time.

Still enough.

I get off with the other passengers and go to a public navigation terminal. A small holographic map appears above the pedestal when I hold my hand near the sensor.

"Esmeralda Quarter. Clinical Center."

The map reorganizes itself. A route leaves the terminal, crosses a few residential streets, and ends at a medical complex near the edge of the quarter.

[Estimated walking time: 10 minutes.]

I memorize the path and start walking.

The difference between the districts shows up immediately.

District 3 suffers from the drought too. The air is still hot, and the ground around what little vegetation there is has that pale look I know from home. But the sidewalks get maintenance, the buildings show fewer signs of abandonment, and the public hydration stations sit under shade structures instead of directly in the sun.

There are trees along the avenue.

Small ones, protected by irrigation rings connected to underground piping. Most of them have thin crowns and support frames around the trunks, but the leaves are green.

I slow down as I pass one of them.

The soil around the base is damp.

A few yards on, a municipal screen displays the next scheduled precipitation window for the district.

So it rains here more often.

Or at least District 3 has the resources to shorten the gaps.

The distinction probably matters to whoever pays the bill. To the tree, it makes no difference.

I keep walking.

The businesses are better kept than the ones near our apartment. Some have proper thermal barriers at the entrances, so customers can come in without dragging the heat off the street with them. A small square has covered benches and a decommissioned fountain, though the basin is clean enough to suggest it sometimes gets water.

District 3 isn’t rich.

It just still manages to spend resources making spaces pleasant.

In District 4, most of the infrastructure exists to keep people alive and moving. Here there’s money to look after the places between one building and another too.

I wonder whether Rhayne ever sat in that square.

Maybe she crossed these streets before the Dive, wearing ordinary clothes and thinking about ordinary problems.

The idea is strange.

I know Rhayne carrying a Battle Ribbon. I know the way her eyes change when she’s hungry, scared, or quietly pleased. I know how carefully she manages the distance between herself and other people, because a simple touch can turn dangerous.

I know almost nothing about the life she left on Earth.

Maybe that’s about to change.

The clinic appears at the end of the next street.

The entrance takes up a modest building between a pharmacy and a public services office. Most of the facility extends through the underground levels, leaving only reception and the administrative areas visible from the street.

I check the clock and cross toward the entrance.

The reader accepts my chip.

The light turns green.

I go in.

The lobby smells of disinfectant and recycled air.

Some things apparently stay identical in every district.

White walls, hard-wearing floors, rows of plastic chairs, and a reception desk protected by transparent partitions. A medical transport robot crosses the corridor carrying sealed containers while an elderly man argues quietly with an automated voucher terminal near the entrance.

The building is better maintained than our Clinical Center in District 4, but I recognize the construction immediately.

Poor districts get different budgets.

They seem to get the same architects.

I go to the reception desk.

The attendant is a woman in her thirties, dark hair pinned back, a clinical ID over her uniform. She’s reviewing a chart when I come up.

"Good afternoon. I’m here for Rhayne Vesper."

She looks up.

"Patient or Diver?"

"Diver."

Her fingers move across the terminal.

"One moment."

A translucent screen appears between us. She types Rhayne’s name and waits for the record to load.

"Ms. Vesper is currently in Diving, sir."

"I know. She’s coming back today."

The woman stops typing.

"Did you receive a scheduled Reentry notification?"

"No. We agreed on the time before I came back."

She looks at me again.

This time with attention.

"You were with her?"

"In Thirstfall. I returned earlier today."

The attendant asks for my identification and checks my clinical history. I notice her expression change when the system confirms my Reentry in District 4.

"You coordinated your return times?"

"Yes."

She looks at Rhayne’s chart again.

Most families never get that chance.

A Diver can stay submerged for months without relatives having any reliable way to follow what’s happening on the other side. People learn to wait for notifications from the tanks. Some get them after a successful Reentry. Others get alerts because the body stopped responding.

Someone walking into a clinic already knowing when another Diver will return is unusual.

The attendant understands that.

Then she opens Rhayne’s full record.

Her expression changes again.

"Wait..."

She leans toward the screen.

"She’s been submerged for more than eight months?"

"Yes."

The woman glances at the inner corridor before turning her attention back to me.

"Mr. Sands, a Diver returning after that long can present significant physical and neurological disorientation. Depending on her condition, she may need extended observation before she can communicate properly or be discharged."

"I know."

"It’s possible she won’t recognize the environment right away."

"That’s exactly why I came."

The attendant holds my gaze.

"I don’t want her to wake up alone," I add.

Her expression softens slightly.

She pulls another form onto the screen.

"All right. I’ll register you as a companion. You’ll need to sign an identification declaration and acknowledge that the medical team retains authority over recovery and discharge procedures."

"That’s fine."

I put my hand on the signature panel.

One form turns into another.

Then a third arrives.

Apparently not even the end of the world can kill bureaucracy.

I fill everything in without complaining. The attendant verifies my identity, adds the visitor authorization to the record, and prints a small access badge.

"Waiting room B-12. Take the elevator down three levels, turn right, and follow the blue markings. Her tank is in the adjacent room."

I take the badge.

"Thank you."

She hesitates before going back to the terminal.

"She’s lucky to have someone waiting."

I look at the corridor.

"So am I."

The elevator descends with a faint mechanical vibration.

When the doors open, I find another familiar stretch of clinical architecture. Clean walls, hard lighting, and doors identified by numbers beside small status screens.

It reminds me of District 4.

A slightly better version, with fewer visible repairs in the corners.

I find B-12 and go in.

The waiting room is small. Two rows of chairs face an information screen, and a water dispenser takes up the space near the door. Past another partition is the recovery section, accessible only to clinical staff.

I sit.

I check the time.

Three minutes.

I breathe out and lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees.

We calculated all of it in Thirstfall. Zhang first, me nine hours later, Rhayne another nine hours after me. The time difference between the worlds gave us a narrow window in which three people could leave from different places and arrive at the same clinic.

I almost ruined it by spending too long at home.

But I’m here.

I look at the adjacent room.

Rhayne will wake up soon.

I find myself wondering what the first few seconds will be like for her.

When I came back, my body had spent relatively little time submerged. Even so, I needed help getting out of the tank, and after medical stabilization the difference between the worlds still made the floor feel unreliable under my feet.

Rhayne’s body has been in that tank for eight months.

She’s been gone for more than two years.

Her body was maintained, monitored, and preserved while she built a completely different existence in Thirstfall.

For someone whose life revolves so much around movement and contact, waking up inside that body is probably going to be frightening.

I remember her sitting next to me in the square, touching my face through the fabric of her glove.

I don’t know if it’ll still feel like home.

I check the clock again.

Two minutes.

A staff member passes through the corridor carrying a folded thermal blanket. I follow her with my eyes until she disappears through the door beside the waiting room.

The minute changes.

I lean back against the seat, then lean forward again.

There’s nothing useful to do.

I already filled out the forms. I know which room holds her tank. The medical team is ready, and getting in the way of those people would only complicate the procedure.

I understand all of that.

My foot keeps moving against the floor anyway.

The scheduled time arrives.

I wait.

A few more seconds pass.

Then another minute.

I stand.

The door to the adjacent room has a narrow observation window. I move closer and look inside.

The tank is open.

Two nurses are helping someone out of the gel.

Rhayne.

My chest tightens.

Her wet hair clings to her face and shoulders while one nurse supports her upper body. The other carefully guides her legs toward a nearby gurney. She’s conscious, but she can barely hold her head up, and the small movements she tries to make with her arms seem to exhaust her.

The doctor stays in front of the monitors, tracking vital signs while he gives instructions.

Rhayne tries to lift her face.

Her eyes open briefly, searching for something in the room without managing to focus.

Her head falls back against the nurse’s shoulder.

They transfer her to the gurney and cover her immediately with a thermal blanket.

I open the door.

"Sir! This area is restricted!"

The nurse closest to the entrance takes a step toward me.

I’m already crossing the room.

"Who authorized you to come in?" the doctor demands.

I barely hear it.

Rhayne is lying on the gurney with her eyes half open, breathing slowly through lips that seem to have forgotten how to form words. The blanket covers her to the shoulders, and a few wet strands are still stuck to her cheek.

She looks smaller than I remember.

I reach the side of the gurney and lean over.

"Rhayne."

Her eyes move.

I put my hands gently on her face.

"Hey. It’s me."

The doctor says something behind me about visitor authorization. One of the nurses is already checking the badge clipped to my jacket, and the protest behind me stops there.

Rhayne’s gaze is fighting to find focus.

I move the wet hair away from her cheek.

"I’m here."

She blinks.

For a moment I’m not sure she understood.

Then her eyes finally find my face.

A weak smile appears.

"Den..."

Her voice barely comes out.

She tries to lift one hand from under the blanket, but her arm moves a few inches before falling back to the mattress.

"You came..."

I take her hand before she tries again.

"Of course I came."

The smile stays.

I move a little closer, keeping her fingers in mine while the nurse adjusts the blanket around her shoulders.

"Don’t push. You just woke up."

Rhayne keeps looking at me with that small, exhausted smile, as if finding my face answered some question she’d been carrying the whole way back from Thirstfall.

I run my thumb gently across her cheek.

"It’s going to be all right."

The doctor goes back to checking her vitals. The nurses keep working around us, and I move only as far as I have to so they can reach the equipment, without letting go of her hand.

Rhayne closes her eyes for a few seconds.

When she opens them again, she looks for me immediately.

I’m still there.

I squeeze her fingers lightly and look at the clock on the wall.

A little more than two minutes have passed since the scheduled time of her Reentry.