The elves tower over Klaus, but he’s a bulwark among them, face as bright as his red suit of particle armor. “You’ve checked the alignment?” he growls through his helmet mic.

“To ninety digits of precision,” flutes the elf chief. “There will be no interference from the planet’s field during acceleration.”

“Christ, I wish we could do this anywhere else,” Klaus mutters. “All right. Strap me in. Merry goddamn Christmas.”

The railsled slams out of the tube with a crackle of ions. Behind it, the workshop’s slow spider legs creep onward, following the magnetic pole at twenty-five miles per year.